


Black Chamomile

by Chiefs



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26103319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiefs/pseuds/Chiefs
Summary: Like a chamomile bed, the more it is trodden, the more it will spread.
Relationships: Y'shtola Rhul/Warrior of Light
Comments: 16
Kudos: 50





	1. Personal Weight

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate any and all that took the time to read, kudos, and by far comment on my original series "Close to Home". I could not be more thankful. Your commentary has meant the world to me and I could never thank you enough for taking the time. I have rewritten the series as one multi-chapter fic. I have also crafted this in a way to fit any Warrior of Light. Ambigiously, I have a bad habit of deleting characters, this commiting to one race, gender, background, or class felt personally disingenuine. I would prefer to focus on the relationship developed more than anything so it is the primary factor in my decision in doing such. I am hoping that this is the best direction for me personally, and will continue to welcome any and all levels of commentary made.
> 
> To that end, I appreciate any and all that take the time to read this and hope you are all well and safe. Thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/4: Prelude has been rewritten via new perspective.

**Prelude: Collation**

_“May our paths cross again under the light of the crystal…”_

[ - ]

There is something to be said about adventurers and their indelible existence. They are a faceless amalgam, arbitrarily existent—even the title itself, “adventurer” begets some form of ambiguity just out of the touch of verisimilitude.

In the same air they are a perpetual group, common—a communal mass that persist in every society across Eorzea as a nearly repudiated portion of social nourishment. They are sellswords, they are craftsmen, they are anything and everything that is needed and pumps life into the city-state of their choosing—which is just as, if not more, arbitrary.

Adventurers are easily exchanged, easily forgotten, easily used, and easily discarded all at once. Until they were not. Some found their place among Grand Companies, devoting their time and name to a title suited to contributions tracked and recognized. Others joined factions, businesses, syndicates, all to become more than just an “adventurer”, to have their names known and to shake that vagrant title.

There are even some that step into the light of recognition by deed alone, shifting from simple adventurer to hero. In the heightened altitude of the Mizzenmast’s peak, an adventurer shifts into a newer title.

A wall of windows that looked out over the sea’s edge painted by the summer’s sunset hues subsequently colored the room. The air billowed from its gentle kiss of salty air to the start of a sea shanty that had been brewed in the same ale that filled bellies of maelstrom members and her allies attending. The sea air slowly subdued by their long-lost songs of the sea across the rooms.

Though the room stood still, their swaying bodies and clinking glasses rocked the room like the deck of a ship cruising among lapping waves, pushing, and pulling them to its heart’s content.

Even the Admiral—Merlwyb Bloefiswyn, steeled composure and all, proud and true—stood among the edges of the crowd, crinkled corners of eyes looking beyond the window’s glass and the room itself. Had this not been marked as a banquet and the military attire ignored, it would have ringed closer to a reunion of pirates and sailors singing to their one true love.

Y’shtola made it a point to observe at a distance. To join them, or even draw closer to them, felt intrusive to a relationship with song and sea that she did not quite understand nor truly intended to. It was a moment better watched in study rather than participation. Thus, this consecrated her silent decision to remain an avatar of observation.

Commodore Reyner, a lighthearted yet steadfast man, aided in this directive. When a member of the maelstrom or anyone had approached for greeting or introduction, he had headed the interaction with a few whispered words that could have been misconstrued for gossip—mayhap the work of ale knowing well his well-kept composure and consideration of customs normally held true. Normally.

“ _Ah_! Be careful with this one—” He would whisper in hushed tones so lightly amused, using eyes to guide her own to a roegadyn man that had been looking their way, but had yet to approach. “He _has_ been known to try his hand, among other parts, with maidens of your _persuasion_.” Reyner shared quick little details beyond expectation; the sordid history of piracy, a growing reputation among the maelstrom coupled with a quick rise to rank. All tied with a bow of maiden tales of unruly late nights and a penchant for tying knots.

“Should the twelve bless him with the courage to grace us with his presence,” Reyner would go on, smile unwavering under high brows, “I presume you would prefer to be knowledgeable of… a possible invitation.”

“Less we pray otherwise—” Y’shtola begins her reply, though midway and to her dismay the roegadyn begins his move across the room to their quiet corner, “it is bound to be an eventuality.”

Reynar’s attention shifts away and to that of their most unfamiliar addition to their solitary corner of the room—an adventurer, the adventurer of the hour. Y’shtola watched as each whispered word entered what was such an oddly placid expression, a shift in gaze to their approaching company, and a slowly growing into a sympathetic simper that met her eyes momentarily.

“No use gawpin’ at ye when yer eyes locked on me like a wheel against gale.” The Roegadyn’s first words to her, standing tall, confident, and with a smile that attempted to play at charming, all in his company issued uniform.

Y’shtola blinked once under briefly crinkled nose, the stench of ale on his breath.

“Name’s Helbzirn, captain of the maelstrom and all that.” He stands a little straighter then, his black scraggly beard a stark contrast to the baldness of his head. “Not a lass like ye for yalms, and a man ought to be able to walk the plank and spout a few bloody words, let alone to a right maiden as yerself.”

Y’shtola blinks a second time, her sideways glance caught the commodore and adventurer as witnesses to this vapid approach.

“And so, you’ve said your words.” Y’shtola says plainly, tone as flat as the very floor they all stood on. “As… astute as those very words are, I would not be familiar with any who would so willingly walk a plank to their very sure and timely end.”

Creases formed over his brow, like folds in dough, “I don’t think I’m hearin’ you right lass.”

The third and final deliberate blink refocused on the captain spotting the leftover bits of food and drink hidden in his scraggly beard around his excessively toothy and crooked to hells. “I am not interested.” Y’shtola asserted plainly.

“Now, look here—” He started a motion to move closer, but then paused when the adventurer had taken an unexpected step forward. It was not enough to put them between herself and the captain but enough to gain both their attention in the moment. It was an unspoken action that said more than any words could, an intent to act if necessary. She thought it unnecessary, and more so took the gesture and catalogued it among the scattered details of this newly arising hero.

“Bold aren’t ye, adventurer.” His attention shifted, and a distinct smirk forming, one that so poorly hid the growing ire for this new and apparent contender. They did not falter, this imposing adventurer, not in stature or expression. They could have very easily faltered to a man with title and rank but chose to stand firm and against regardless. “Would be a great shame if I had to string ye up and gut ye like a right fat trout.”

The air between them sparked tension where it was not before. It is nearly chilling how focused their gaze had become, recognized only before in the perils of battle when they stood to fight along side each other against the aggravated goobbue. Y’shtola found herself knowing they would not act unless provoked to do so—that even this move was one of habit not necessarily one of intent. Believing that she was not one in need of protection, this gesture made is a commendable one.

“Pay mind, Captain.” Reynar was the next to speak cutting into the tension with his composure reshaped, missing the teeming effects of ale that had shown moments earlier. “It would not bode well for the Admiral, nor _you_ , should you decide to inconvenience, or better, _disturb_ her invited guests. To have one believe that she is not a gracious host, or worse, garner a reputation of inhospitality, would be most displeasing—and as we both know word in our fair city-state travels unusually fast. Would you not agree?”

He is quiet for a moment, she notices, watching his attention flick between herself, Reynar and the adventurer, the wheels were certainly turning. “Aye,” a beat, “I suppose not.” Lips pursed into a snarl of sorts, the captain shook his head, made a sharp suck of teeth, and decided on retreat. He spared no words or goodbyes to his departure, but rather found a lingering yet challenging gaze on the adventurer before wholly turning tail.

“Quite a way to make an impression.” Reynar’s chipper attitude rising once more to address the adventurer once Helbzirn was out of earshot. “You’ve borne the worst of, _clearly,_ social ineptitude and mayhap gained some form of respect all without saying a single word, an accomplishment that should not be so easily scoffed at—you learn quickly.”

“I would be remiss to disagree, Commodore.” Y’shtola added, not privy to shift her gaze away from the adventurer, who only seemed to recede into a sheepish smile.

“Then we are all in agreement!” his hands clasped together in joy, trading glances between the archon and the adventurer who then receded back into place adjacent.

This was not their first-time meeting, herself, and the adventurer. Their familiarity was in passing observations. They were disturbingly quiet. Not only that they ever rarely spoke, but that there was silence in gaze. It, initially, was attributed to their apparent amateurism to Limsa Lominsa and La Noscea as a whole. In a location that is seemingly unfamiliar, many recede to simply observing, refraining from stepping on any toes or catching unwanted attention.

Though her comings and goings strive to retain a distinct path laid out carefully by plans crafted by her and her associates, the adventurer was becoming a point of interest. Their presence at the banquet even spoke to such growing interest beyond that expressed by her colleagues and on to the greater world.

“If you’d like,” Reyner waving away the silence between them, “I could assure that your departure goes without notice of your newly gained fan.”

Y’shtola shook her head at that, shrugging among upturned palms, “I have managed thus far, if it beggars need for a more direct way of making a point, it would not prove a challenge.”

Reyner hums then, “A maiden of experience.”

Her expression is polite, a toothless smile, but otherwise plain. “My doubts of another approach while our friend is present,” She peers at the adventurer, catching the quick aversion of gaze only to have it return to her, “are admittedly high. It seems we have earned ourselves a modicum of respite from unwanted attention.”

Again, with the sheepish smile and a curt nod as their reply, the adventurer remained in that air of silence.

_How peculiar,_ she thinks quietly to herself as Reyner, in agreement with her assertion, went back to chatting the adventurer up with more tittle tattle about the soiree at hand. Y’shtola found herself receding into her thoughts, considering her next steps beyond this room, the very tasks she would need to accomplish, and how quickly she could get to them, and, more so, what part the adventurer would eventually play in them.

_How peculiar, indeed._

**Chapter One: Personal Weight**

Returning to Vesper Bay, the colorless evening sky surrendered to a balmy summer downpour. The grumbling distant thunder over the darkened seas was a sign that it would likely last through the night. It is not ideal for the tail end of a three-day journey.

The only people that fared in the change in weather out at the Bay’s limits were merchants under damp pitched tents and the occasional sailor from the dock and a lone weary adventurer that only sought refuge. The weather was not without consequence. The pickup of winds and rain soaked into the clothed parts of cuirass underlining adding a new weight and a newly hurried step to the Waking Sands. Even in crossing the threshold of diamond etched oak double doors, the excess seemed to slowly pool at the soles of their feet.

To their luck, Tataru was not in her normal place, the small round table she often occupied left vacant with nothing more than a few stacked books. She would have surely fussed over the puddles he left behind. Thus, they opted to quickly find a place to dry rather than stand and wonder aimlessly for a mop, started down the steps through another set of identical ornate oak double doors into the underground location, a trail of droplets and small pools of rainwater left behind.

A third shift guard is the first person they come across. He is familiar as a passing face with no name, a hyur midlander no older than thirty with dark scruffy hair to match poorly kept stubble and dressed in standard scale mail. His lackadaisical greeting, a sleepy nod acting as a passive hello, is a telltale trait of most of the third shift guards he briefly interacted with. By the time of the day, he was only two-thirds through his shift and losing steam. The returned greeting was short in kind while hooking a left towards the common hall.

The common hall is scarcely occupied. The scattered tables primarily empty save for a lone miqo’te whose feet were propped up on the round table nearest the doors—head tilting back and well into sleep. Even the striking dummies stood still and quiet, undisturbed by weapon or fist, slightly leaning from wear and tear.

They walk across the hall to the tucked alcove in the back of the room. It is sectioned off by pillars, crates, and barrels filling most of the space with a large coffer claiming the corner among cobwebs. There are a pair of tables stacked on one another away while a few chairs sat chairs overturned atop the only unstacked table. It takes little effort to flip a chair, and move a table to be used, though admittedly the wet parts of armor became increasingly hard to ignore with every ungracious squish of wet clothing against skin.

Their weapon is first to go, placing the armament of steel and oak on the faintly dusty table. For the gauntlets, they chose to sit before unlatching the inner straps, a loud thud rings out when they hit the table. A slow look over the shoulder reveals that the noise did not garner attention but the deep snore of the miqo’te compatriot acting as the only rebuttal. The wet release of the scale mail being removed is uncomfortable, the air feeling chilled. It is set quietly among tossed gauntlets, leaving nothing more than the damp hempen undershirt and flanchard.

When the adventurer feels alone and at ease, they place elbows on armored knees, burying their face into palms. Lungs fill and empty like the steady pump of an alembic; filling, emptying again—an effort to decompress the weight of events passed.

Defeating Ifrit created a weight. To face a god-like being and rise the victor was not only a battle in resolve but willpower that, they learned, was aided by the power of the echo. It was the most harrowing experience thus far—the influence Ifrit enacted on those who did not possess his apparent gift. Their will bent and twisted at nothing more than the whims of the beast. It was unheard of—and to say that nothing but sheer luck of being chosen protected them from such a fate.

Even so, it did not dissuade them from venturing further into Thancred and Minfilia’s newly cast shadow of the truths uncovered by the accomplishment—as one flame is put out another is bound to rise. To add, what energy and time would have taken to process what transpired was swiftly swept away when leaders of Eorzea’s city-states sent out officers in the hopes to recruit the newest hero into their military ranks.

Initially, the choice was clear—their attention belongs to the scions. They revealed a mission to protect the realm from all that would dream of thwarting the balance of life and death. The adventurer could think of no greater cause or calling to devote themselves to.

However, Minfilia recommended that a choice be made; to join the forces of a Grand Company could lend aid to the plights that lay ahead for the scions and Eorzea as a whole, even if temporarily. They felt no kinship to any city-state beyond the home to their refined training, but wondered that if to enlist means to offer undying loyalty, would it not interfere with the aid of others? Minfilia had assured that it would not but was not sure it was so easily believed. What military would allow their soldiers and commanders such vast freedoms?

“Not necessarily where I would choose with wont for privacy, but it is an interesting choice no less.”

It is Y’shtola, they know without looking. Her voice, such as her presence, is distinct. It draws their attention, face leaving the refuge of palms to see her leaning against the crates adjacent that curved into something of a makeshift wall.

She wears her usual garb, the white shirt and dark blue pants, the wooden wand tucked away where is normally rested upon her hip. She is dry, no sign of the rain leaving its mark upon her, and it plays as a sore reminder of the current state of armor.

“Worry not, I am alone.” Said in response to the sudden surveillance of the room by her damp companion, “and I possess no plans to apprise your being here nor do I plan to invite others to your presence.” A beat, “save for our slumbering friend.”

They resisted a smirk at her biting humor by seemingly looking away to mindlessly adjust a latch on armor, “Is there another meeting at this hour?”

“Nay, I believe many to be resting, as our ally has surely displayed—” Y’shtola’s gaze side eyes without turning to their snoring companion, then back, “most would find their rest this late into the night.”

“And you?” Asked with a genuine curiosity. There was no telling what ventures Y’shtola took on when she was gone for days at a time, only to return with a plethora of new information or knowledge to share. To see her at all, or even this late without some form of meeting, was seemingly unusual.

“Awaiting the weather.” She said almost bored with her own words. “There is a choice to be made. Have you decided?”

There is no surprise that Y’shtola was to the point, as she always is—just as there was no reason to question how she even knew the subject of their internal deliberation to begin with.

Even with a seemingly private meeting, it was not outside the realm of possibility that she came across the officers as they manned the Waking sands at all hours in the company of the scions. One thing learned quickly about her—she would find out sooner rather than later and nothing got by her unnoticed and rarely unrecognized.

“No.” The adventurer admits simply.

Y’shtola’s head tilts, never in confusion but curiosity. “Verily, your affable relationships with not just those you’ve encountered but corresponding leadership are unmistakable. I assumed it would bring clarity, thus expediency of choice.” said clearly as if to mark it as fact rather than an educated guess. “However, you have been proven to be an agent of mystery, as much as you are proving to become an agent of the light.”

“An agent of mystery?” They retorted, amused. “Am I mysterious?”

A pause, then, “you mistake my meaning. Mayhap mysterious is too generous or broad a term to describe you.” Y’shtola states thoughtfully, “Aberrant.” Not a correction, but clarification.

They scratch at the back of their neck, expression turning bemused, “Is this a compliment?”

“No.” Y’shtola simply states, and the back of the adventurer’s neck grows warm with embarrassment for asking. “It is an observation.” She goes on, “You’ve stood far enough out from the ideals of simple adventuring that it begs wonder to your true intentions and desires.”

The adventurer knows the answer—their intent has only ever been to help those that ask. And that alone reminds them why the decision seemed to be more difficult. “How can I help them all?” A question that felt inherently broad, but Y’shtola does not give away misunderstanding.

“A question borne from such simple circumstance? One would believe that stood a question before an invitation was made.” A beat, “ _Ah_ , you fear the restrictive nature of your choices.” Y’shtola seems to concede upon her own council. “To be bound by one means to deny yourself from the others.” When the adventurer nods, she goes on, “If to be a part of the scions begets loyalty to not one cause or organization, but to the preservation of several and the protection of Eorzea, how can you truly do so if you feel an obligation to the Immortal Flames, Maelstrom or Twin Adders?”

When the adventurer nods again, Y’shtola simply chuckles.

“You wonder how you could extend the arm of assistance to all.” She taps at her chin thoughtfully, then says “by aether shard or crystal, I presume.”

The answer is ribbing and Y’shtola’s expression does little to hide it. Though, the fact that it furrows their brow, the adventurer’s expression coerces another chuckle from her.

“Aye, you are of the scions by your choosing, to then choose a Grand Company does not negate that choice, nor does it prohibit you from aiding the likes of others.”

“You sound so sure.”

“Because I am.” Her tone holds an undeniable confidence, though the only time they can remember that it did not was when she was thinking, processing information. “Should your commitments feel insubstantial or restrictive, they are and can be considered temporary.”

“Minfilia said something similar.” The adventurer says, mindlessly adjusting the strap of their gauntlet, latching and unlatching. “She assured me the same.”

“I would not doubt Minfilia’s advice on the matter.” Y’shtola says. “She is familiar in the ways of procuring powerful allies and favor of influential figures of Eorzea.” Her eyes shift momentarily, her expression falling to a ghostly neutral. “Withal, she needs not my aid to impart a similar wisdom, let alone by proxy. Her guidance should have sufficed.”

The change in demeaner catches their attention, brow raising, face twisted in bemusement.

“Your choices are your own, with or without mine or Minfilia’s word to persuade you.” She clarifies, “Though the choice is clear, if you don’t wish to join—then do not.”

The adventurer’s gaze downcast to the gauntlet still enduring the scrutiny of their idle fidgeting. In clarity, they were more than likely overthinking. The residual energy and emotion from remembrance speeches and sudden camaraderie of Eorzea’s people coupled with the intensity and anxiety of fighting a primal without any real preparation considerably clouded some part of their judgement. They let out a low sigh, thinking, _it is that simple_ , as a quiet reassurance.

“You’ve been more decisive in the past.” Y’shtola states, the adventurer looking to meet her inquisitive gaze. “Quick to take on battles or tasks on a whim. I find it curious that _this_ is what gives you pause.” A beat, “I say not to discredit your concern. It is fair and warranted. Scions play more as an additional line of defense rather than a singular and separate driving force or power. As all things including your induction as a Scion of the Seventh Dawn, your choice in a Grand Company retains no permanence.”

“I am only as good as my word.”

“Nay, you are only as good as your deeds.” Y’shtola clarifies once more. “To defeat a primal is no simple deed, but to lay your life on the line for others threatened to lose their will and to fight so that they see another day as their own. It was not an easy choice to make, but you chose to make it where others would have done otherwise.”

It brings them to pause once more. The last in the hopes to shake the tendrils of doubt that seemed to fade away to nothing. “Mayhap you are right.”

“Mayhap I am.” Y’shtola says with amused lilt. “Is that all that troubles you?” She asks, tilting her head just so.

There is a question that lingers, one with no malice but a considerable question— _why_? In all their interactions with one another Y’shtola was not one to offer counsel that would be considered personal. In fact, their relation could have hardly been considered more than a professional relationship with a considerable distance emotionally and mentally. It was initially attributed to their novice ranking within the scions. The others acted similarly—kindness, but all business. Of course, there were some instances of personal interactions between members, but they were usually experiencing as an observer, not a participant.

They would have considered more to her reasons why if it they had the chance to be free from her scrutinous gaze for a moment.

“I—” They pause, a mild huff something of realization of being equally regaled and confounded by the conjurer, “For all the hardships I may face, this has become the most difficult.”

Y’shtola brings the print of her thumb to rest under her chin, finger curling into a loose fist, “If this be the most difficult of your hardships, you have considerable luck.”

“We will see.” A smile overtaking their expression.

“So, we shall.” Y’shtola says with her undeniable confidence. She takes a singular step away from the crate she had been leaning against. “I suggest you find rest, I’m sure when the sun rises the liaisons will be eager to hear from you.”

The adventurer fashions a nod as an answer before Y’shtola starts to fashion her exit as quietly and quickly as she came.


	2. Sun’s Squib, Sea’s Snicker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far, in this "rework/rewrite" it is a matter of editing and adjusting tone in some ways. Most of these will continue to feel familiar to the original (if you have read it) I have added more parts here and there either to bring moments to the surface that I thought would just be nice, or to give the situation a little more detail.

Titan’s Bane—a new title accrued by trial and task but not the deed that would honor it.

Even before facing the primal itself there is celebration of deed and duty. Wheiskaet’s gathering, born from his tasks that were called ignominious, were to be had before venturing forth into another battle. They did not shy away from the challenge, instead found comfort in being of aid to those that may need it, even with those tasks marked as mundane or futile. Their point in doing so did not escape consideration, and their caution was warranted—to mindlessly send another into the fires of battle without testing their worth would have felt no different from simply killing them themselves.

As drinks and chatter passed in various whirlwinds, each member of the Company of Heroes had imparted some form of wisdom or compliment either through slurred words or during distracted glances at brown-skinned beauties. After a mindful chat and glowing compliment from Wheiskaet, there is a moment where he notices Y’shtola sitting upon the same bench they had last spoke to her—notably away from the party. Her hands are cradled in her lap, an ankle cross over the other, and her eyes cast out over the ocean’s waves. There is a slow sea breeze that wafts gently though strands of her white hair, the only motion in her still form.

It would be dishonest to say that it is the first-time attentions shifted to the conjurer during celebrations or otherwise. Y’shtola grew to become a source of counsel when it was least expected. Every scion held some level of wisdom or intelligence to share, but her laser focus and a penchant for direct honesty had been favored. During the celebration itself however, in various moments mid conversation or otherwise, they often shared sidelong glances to the spot on the bench, curious if she would remain there.

Each time, she was there, the same relaxed pose, looking out into the sea, unmoving and unchanged.

Once freed from the grips of social desideratum, the adventurer fashioned an approach.

“You are kind to indulge them—” Said mildly, gaze still perpetually entranced by the waves below, but the vexation of her tone does not go unnoticed.

“Aye.” Said to the tune of— _go on._

“—we have yet to even _begin_ to have battle with Titan let alone approach the primal’s lair.” The point is valid, the center point of their goal is to face the Lord of Crags by the guidance of the Company of Heroes. Y’shtola placed her focus there from beginning to end—they had not expected anything different.

Gaze cast out over the party once more, taking in what cheer and mood had danced in the air around them before asking, “May I?” about the half of the bench that remained unoccupied. After the seemingly welcomed nod, they sit a short distance away from her, though still in the air of her attention. “Do you think our time is being wasted?”

“ _I do_.” Y’shtola says, the air of her voice made it seem even asking was an incredulous act. “I _should_ have foreseen this… _test_ before it even began. They mean well by their intentions; however, their methods leave extraordinarily little in the way of practicality. Time is not something we wish to waste. Every moment we remain here is a moment Titan grows stronger by the prayers of its thralls.”

There were several ways to test a person, and it was perhaps one of the lengthiest endured. Running between lands, fighting through wilds, and more—it made the duties of their early adventuring days seem like simple tasks. Even so, it was no bother. With patience held, performing the tasks had been easy knowing that they were, though frivolous, in the aid of someone in need.

“Regardless,” Her word interrupts their thoughts, what frustration she held towards time’s waste dissolving into a smile shifting like the sea same shift in sea winds, “Did you enjoy the celebration?”

The adventurer shares a wordless nod, leaning over to set elbows atop knees. The sunshine bright over them, warmed rays against skin and gentle breeze cooling it all the same. If they could stay here, in this moment, endlessly they would be hard pressed to let it go. The sounds of celebration growing distant, the sound of winds and waves prevailing and an unparalleled peace in the comfort of favored company. It could have not been more peaceful, even with the coming battle looming like a stray cloud passing across the sun.

“Do you feel yourself prepared to face Titan?” She asks.

Expression falls at the question, instinctively knowing the answer with clarity— _No_. Just as the confrontation with Ifrit was one not prepared for; Titan bared a new challenge in difficulty. The way the Lord of Crags is described, a being able to wield the power of the earth and quake the lands of foes that provoke it, it seemed like there is no way to prepare for such a battle or enemy. There had not been any clear guidance as to how to defeat the primals, just simply that they _must_ be defeated.

“Your silence is cause for concern.” Y’shtola speaks up once more.

“It is no simple task, but it is a task I take on without doubt.”

“You’ve answer, but not to the question.” Y’shtola states, her head coming to a tilt—a move to get a better look at them, to really look. The adventurer could see the search tell in her gaze, reading, analyzing, understanding. “Unless we are both privy to the answer.”

“If I am able to defeat Ifrit with nothing more than will and weapon, Titan should be no different.”

“ _Should_.” A clarification that feels exposing—she knows the answer yet begs it to the air for a reason unknown. Y’shtola is silent for a moment then, unchanged, the same tilt in her neck remained, the well-tempered look about her expression. “Not the answer one would hope to hear.”

“To a question one couldn’t hope to answer.” Said near exasperated by the heavy sigh they held back, not wanting to seem so small under her perusal.

Y’shtola leans back onto her palms, chin tilted towards the sky. “You know my inquiries do not aim to cause frustration.” And they do not—it is clear in mind that Y’shtola’s questions come from a place of concern or consideration at the least. More so that her criticism is an act of expression, to share her thoughts clearly and honestly.

It grows odd in the air to consider admitting to the feeling of fear after doing so much for so many. It evolves as an expectation—fear was becoming a luxury to hold.

“I’ve never known you to ask questions you know the answer to.” Said clearly by the adventurer, though the frayed edges of indignance in the way that a child would at the behest of a mother’s chiding felt as if they bled through their tone.

“What reason would I have to pose such questions if I possessed their answers?” Y’shtola’s voice picks up an amused lilt.

Cleared throat, “Curiosity.” She scoffs in return. “ _Perspicacity_.” She laughs definitively.

It is lighthearted when she does laugh, soft yet full in the way that billowing white clouds look in clear blue skies. It is contagious, not in the manner that begs a commonality in humor, but in the infectious way that it makes the corners of mouth curl simply by the sweet sound of it—longing to hear it more the second it ended.

“You mean to call me shrewd?”

“ _Astute_.” They clarify, smile holding from the residual shared laugh. “I would bet everything that I own that you have a knack to see more than with your eyes.”

“Mayhap I am not the only one.” Y’shtola still smiles, closes her eyes to the sun for only a moment. “I _may_ possess insight to what answers you may give, but I would never wish to rob you of the opportunity to surprise me.”

“Have I?” The adventurer questions, “surprised you?”

Y’shtola makes the soft sound of a low hum, looking to them. “Your ability or lack thereof to do so is not of importance.”

“Not the answer one would hope to hear.” They retort, lightly mocking.

“ _Please_ ,” Y’shtola chides, but there is little in the way of reprimand in her tone. “If you’ve spent your time well in the festivities—“ she moves to stand retreating from her sun soaked spot, and their gaze refusing to leave her, “seek the answers from Wheiskaet, the time has come for him to make good on his promise.”

-][-

In the deep darkness, an unnerving shadow rests itself on the shoulders of possibility—should luck run out, would the journey traveled be one worth telling for ages to come? It is looming like a gliding bird, a scrupulous shadow created by the sun’s unwavering rays, quiet and diligently following each stay thought.

A linger reminder and a reminiscent curse—a primal needed to be faced once more.

Ifrit was no small feat, and the rewards and commendations gained after turned from sheer astonishment that one could even walk away unscathed, but clear reassurance that if one should arise once more a name would fall to lips to discharge a similar threat. A deed meant to aid turned to a defining hallmark of reputation and marked unceremoniously as a Warrior of Light.

The title settled like sand into a bucket, drifting aimlessly in the water until it clumped at the bottom of the chest and weighed exactly that of the hopes people placed in them. A weight they no longer owned but held heart to carry.

Even when the O‘Ghomoro mines, wrought in the shape of labyrinths and tainted with that toxic smells of slugmillion, a contrasting resolve remained unwavering. The walls carried echoes of far kobold calls and the scurrying of agitation—a god reborn and a confidence regained and a hope that land may be marked as their own at the cost of the lives in Kobold’s path.

And so, the Warrior of Light stood before the teeming light of a crystal nestled in the safety of Zelma’s Run. Its protectors laid low by a joint effort, Y’shtola’s aid once again coming to play an important role in the path they continue to take.

“I must stay behind.”

Her words had not faltered or regaled confidence in the task behind, nor did it promote their gaze to avert from the crystal’s unique yet malformed shape. It brought the reminder of Thancred, in face of ifrit, there was no way to gain his aid, lest he risk the loss of his will to a primal and rendered useless to their joined cause. However, when Y’shtola spoke, it was remiss to compare that same sentiment—she fashioned dissatisfaction in her role.

“I am to face Titan on my own.”

“Not entirely.” She said, gaining their gaze only to be met with something bordering sympathetic. She stood adjacent finding her gaze placed on them. “The scions have rallied others with your gift to meet you anon. You may lead the charge, but you do not face this enemy alone.”

It gains a small scoff in return, no to be unappreciative, but unwilling to risk the lives of others. Perhaps it was self-indulgent to think that Y’shtola would be at their side in the light of battle, but they offered no protest in return.

“Verily, you’re not wont for a hand to hold along the way?”

“A _hand_ —” spoken with paramount incredulity and levels of confusion that could have lasted for years on end. But her jeer if anything made their own misgivings clear as they did in Costa Del Sol. Even among the laugh she shared brought a similar comfort back to surface. “I can assure you;” said though a half smile, gaze returned to the crystal, “my concern is not the aid but the risks.”

“Something we’ve _all_ considered.” Y’shtola clarified, her gaze averting to the crystal before them. “Even if failure should ever make its undue presence, we do not act as if it were the only outcome. Remain focused on your task at hand. I shall be here, awaiting your return, Warrior of Light.”

-][-

The humid air of Camp Bronze Lake muddied lungs like the murky swamp air seeped into airways and coated everything it touched with a grimy layer. Breathing such heavy air was a chore of its own, disliking the location altogether, the only saving grace was how clear the air became the closer one stood near the steamed waters.

Y’shtola had asked to meet here. After the Lord of Crags came to fall, she held her end of the bargain, stood waiting at the edge of Titan’s lair, and recommended that they regroup in the raised encampment. Like Ifrit, there was no true strategy against Titan. What was learned from the primal in battle was to be used immediately in the hopes of obtaining victory. If that had not been enough, the layer of dust that felt permanently fused into skin at the fight itself would serve as proof alone.

When they approached the aetheryte from the entrance stairs, Y’shtola was already waiting, leaning against a pillar at the edge of ankle-deep pool. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her gaze distant from the present location she is in—more than likely lost in thought. It became more apparent upon closing the distance. It is not until they are a couple steps away that she notices new company.

“Warrior of Light.” Her greeting is pleasant, quiet, “I expected you sooner.”

“Ah, a primal will do that.”

“That they do.” She concedes, briefly amused, “The scions require that the Maelstrom be notified of the victory over Titan. Though I am sure news has spread, an official notice is a part of protocol. I recommend you return to Limsa Lominsa and share what occurred.”

Brow raised, they say, “It sounds as if I will be taking this journey alone.”

Y’shtola gives a single nod, “You shall. I will be returning to the waking sands to inform Minfilia of our venture. The honor to spread good news to the Maelstrom is yours.” When they nod in affirmation, she takes a single step away from the pillar, a step closer to the adventurer. A little smile from Y’shtola started a creeping warmth at the nape of neck.

“I must commend you on a job well done.” Y’shtola waves a hand. “Twice now you have faced a primal and emerged the victor, and by little intervention or assistance. That is no small feat Warrior of Light.”

A smile was given in thanks, her words filled with something that could be marked as warmth or fondness. Though they attributed it to simply the making of the congratulatory nature of her word, a compliment is better served warm.

Y’shtola begins her departure towards the aetheryte in careful splashing steps across the low shimmering pool. Her hand reaches out to the large crystal and, for a moment, shares a short glance over her shoulder towards the lone adventurer, watching her. For a moment, they suspected the curve of a smile on the edge of her lips just before she disappeared in the quick dimmed light of the crystal.

Left alone among that warm air of the springs, it felt as though the source was from within.


	3. Unbearable Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original I skipped the Waking Sands incident, this time around I decided to include it. Feeling meh about it, might adjust a couple things, but uh for now, this is what I got. Messed up a couple tenses/phrasing towards the end and will also fix those.
> 
> A: Updated, end is a bit different - the tone was... off to me, so I changed it]. Altered some wording throughout/general editing (shoutout to backpack). Still may be some errors here and there but overall satisfied with it. Figure next chapter will be a little more... fluff than... whatever im doing now.

_“Their colors became darker and darker, as if they were bringing us to the threshold of transcendence...”_

-

It is the deep silence that resonates the loudest. The darkness engulfing the stillness of the air, the aura of death that lingers like a fog.

_Death_ —so peripheral in nature these days, the ones lost to death were spoken of in past tense, old tales, or a possibility, very rarely did it kiss the seams of reality. Yet here was death in full force at the precipice of reality, begging to be regarded and desperate for notice.

Each step held a dangerously empty echo against the stony walls, every sound made almost felt as if it turned and disfigured into a wailing of ghouls seeping from lifeless eyes and still bodies. Even the sound of their own steps seemed to lose volume, overtaken by the deep ringing that began to surface in light of the horrors that painted the floors red.

They are dead. All of them.

Those expressionless faces, jaws slacked, eyes lulled and still, all held the phantoms of familiarity. Scion after scion, body after body, each step now losing focus, losing purpose. There was a moment of pause at the hallway’s intersection, eyeing the far door adjacent that would open to the common hall. The thought of more bodies, more familiar faces laying in wait beyond those doors swept over the soul with dread.

But like a guiding hand, the dread carried each silent and careful step towards the entrance to the common hall. Opening those large wooden doors to more of those familiar faces, disfigured bodies, and blood and scorch marks painting a gruesome picture of death over a dark canvas.

There was a natural desire to drift over the spot where those archons once stood. There things were still there, tomes and parchment splatter with the blood of others, even a guard laid over the table lifeless. The air unnaturally still and filled with the stench of death, and that silence falling prey to the sporadic thudding of their heart. Each beat a pulsating realization, a sonar our to the room, seeking a singular ping of relief but none was found. It took a stifled breath, afraid to breathe too deeply as if the air was tainted with the souls of the lost. It felt involuntary, the way that they backed away to continue towards the solar to free themselves from the ensuing hell that occupied the common hall.

The door, chilled as they imagined the bodies must be by now, felt unnatural to the touch when a palm was placed gently on the Solar’s entrance but did not open the door. Their eyes closed, trying again at a deep breath. It felt as if to open the doors would mean to undo this harrowing spell of death and disperse the dark cloud that settled and permeated in the Waking Sands.

They would see Minfilia’s face, bright yet confused at the dour expression on her fellow scion. Her smile would distract from her present company, Thancred, offering counsel to the young woman but so sorely interrupted. Papalymo would be conversing with Urianger in the corner among tomes, something near intelligible by the jargon they implemented and Yda would attest to it by her thousand-yard state into a world of her own.

And _she_ would be there. Unnoticed at first, as she always was, quietly watching, observing. Y’shtola would be analyzing the confusion that would overtake the sudden entrance but knowing almost immediately the answer she sought—her endlessly perceptive mind always working. All would smile and congratulate on their newly earned victory over the Lord of Crags and begin to discuss the next feat or perilous happenstance that requires their attention.

It felt like a needle pierced through the hand on the door and straight into the depths of their heart in epiphany. A pain so sharp and sudden it made the adventurer’s hand recede from the wooden door in a flinch. Among the bodies, they did not spot the white dalamtica splattered in blood or the wooden wand broken or shattered on the floor. If it had been there it would have been immediately recognized, but none spoke to her body or attire. It did not negate the possibility that her body may be laying across the floor or table of the common hall lifeless, and that thought alone hard brought an unimaginable pain that no sword or arrow could dream to recreate. It was a horror that they could not bear to witness, a body they could not stand to see. Fingers curl away from the door, recede more into the safety of conjectures that sought to rule her out.

_She is far too smart and far to intelligent to be… She would never fall victim to… Her magicks are beyond compare surely, she would not..._

Back and forth did the mind bounce, a torturous ricochet of _is and is not_ , _why, and why not_. But none are impervious to death and none escape it forever, the bodies that lay behind are proof. Y’shtola was no exception.

_But she may still be alive—_ a thought borne from a very small spark of hope. _She may still be alive_. Noting again that she was not spotting her among the fallen offered a modicum of courage to press on in that moment alone.

The adventurer pushed the door open to be met with the same feeling that had overtaken the breadth of their chest and filled it mercilessly—emptiness. They stood there at that entrance to the Solar, staring beyond the back wall, beyond the room into nothingness. More bodies dressed the floor as they did in the halls, more carnage to run blood colder than the peaks of Coerthas. The silence became unbearable, elevating the overpowered sensation of sheer loneliness. A low rumble in the brain gave rise that resonated on eardrums like drumsticks on the head of a bass. The room felt like the depths of a cave dark and absolute, tremoring the earth, isolated and alone.

There was a small motion from the floor that caught attention, pulled away from the bleak realizations that have come to pass—the body of a sylph. Yet that alone sparked another question.

Where are the bodies? What laid in the rooms were familiar faces with scattered names, but none marking the familiarity of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. It made the hall all the more eerie, all the quieter. The whisper of Noxraxia’s last words still echoing in mind—seek shelter at the Church of Saint Adama Landama.

-][-

_“…to the mystery of the cosmos…”_

The Warrior of Light stood in the whirling gale as steel tempered by the fires of obduracy. Nothing would stand in their way.

Ifrit had posed as a figure of fear, Titan posed as a figure of terror, Garuda had been worthy of a title of her own but did not receive it, not from the adventurer. Garuda held a reputation of viciousness, a ruthless desire to shred and tear any in her path to shreds. There was not one perhaps more willing to spark terror into the hearts of men and women alike as Garuda.

The Howling Eye created fear. Fear holds no power. Fear is a luxury.

Traversing the lands of Coerthas, its harsh icy winds, its snowy peaks had been the will of a sinister plot at the expense of those who once stood at their side. Each task was littered with thoughts of the lost scions. Their fates, their lives remained constant in mind and the source of such perseverance. For what challenges came to bear witness to this stubbornness, the road had to lead to their safety, no obstacle would pervert that cause, not even a primal.

It was a secured sense of resolve that nothing could stand if the ones they fought for could not.

Even when Garuda was defeated and Gaius Van Baelsar brought to head an impeccable threat to bare, that resolve remained unwavering. Had it been necessary to raise arms against this new weapon, then the battle would have ensued then and there. Had it not been for the counsel of Alphinaud and Cid Garlond, a newer ally into the fray, they would have willfully stayed and fought for the truth of their colleagues, their friends. They deemed the primals no longer a threat thus deemed it necessary to rebuild the scions of the seventh dawn.

And so, they stepped away, moving away from the threat that stood to find the answers that begged in heart and mind to be found.

-][-

_“… The tragic mystery of our perishable condition...”_

Returning to the Waking Sands was not ideal. The reminder of events past still standing firm in their mind—the stench, the bodies, none had faded from memory so easily. What lingered most was the looming dread, the everlasting shadow that followed endlessly, silent and wanting to be noticed by any that entered its domain. Even the demeanor of Alphinaud and Cid adjusted to its presence, slow thoughtful steps as if the bodies were still present, darting eyes as if the perpetrators lay in wait to strike again.

But it remained

The plan, however, deemed that they rebuild the Scions of the Seventh Dawn if there _was_ anything to rebuild. Beyond Alphinaud and Cid Garlond—a more recent addition to their small recovery troop—there were no signs from others.

What had been the strangest part was a point that Alphinaud made. An observation of occupation, as if the dust did not quite settle the way it should, more so that it had been cleaner than the last time they entered the Waking Sands. Someone had been through here, cleared some of the carnage left behind and it sparked some hope that the Scion’s may truly still be alive.

In caution still, the urge to draw their weapon in anticipation was inherently strong, but without action from the others, they simply remained on edge.

When exploring further into the solar, their theories proved true but not in a way they expected. Yda, often seen at the side of Papalymo stood in the center of the room on her guard just as they were. With her explanation, her reasoning for being there, the fate of their friends the greater picture only seemed to become clearer. Minfillia, Papalymo taken by Baelsar in the hopes of understanding the echo, and Y’shtola out to seek more information to their whereabouts.

It was difficult, admittedly, to find any relief in the wake of tragedy, but this was the first feeling of relief since. 

With so many lives lost and several more questions unanswered, there was little to revel in, even when they found small victories in Ishgardian territory. What lingered was the lack of truth, the constant wondering, the ever-looming and persistent dread—latched on like a leech to the heart. With more answers, more clarity, a weight slowly lifted from their chest, relieved them from the growing frustration of facing helplessness.

But with Yda’s explanation and a suggestion to find rest that were held in the Garlean’s grasp, things seemed to be turning around for the better.

Rest was found, even in that dark place among those dark stains. Fallen into the endless stupor to find sleep shrouded with visions and captivating words from the mother crystal. Her words of warning did not provoke restful sleep, nor did the sudden bang of the door that woke them.

Y’shtola’s return, though expected, still came as a happy surprise. Granted the vision shared by Hydaelyn and her message remained constant in mind, the meteor shower and her words still resonating in mind. those details shared by their miqo’te companion were absorbed, committed to memory, and sparked a new fire of determination. There was something more to her return that lingered quietly under the surface—inconspicuous yet dawdling affinity believed to be the nothing more than the effects of friendship.

Where, it begged, did this affinity begin, and would it ever end?

-][-

_“…. And the silence of God, the unbearable silence of God.”_

To knowledge of others, the Warrior of Light was ready. Ready to stand among mechanized towers and iron clad walls to risk life and limb to secure the lives of their companions.

It was no simple effort, nor was it a task so easily taken for granted. The garleans, time and time over, proved to be a foe formidable enough to grant pause and consideration—not by just the harrowing tales from those displaced by their unbearable hunger for conquest but by their direct and effective acts of violence towards the scions. Choosing to simply storm their territories on stolen lands was a fool’s plan that would end in an even more foolish death. As a result, they planned and prepared a liberation of their allies from their grip.

Working alongside Cid, Biggs, and Wedge—proprietor and technicians of the Ironworks—for the procurement of magitek to further their goals had been an experience in itself. It sparked a level of confidence, to have corresponding firepower to defeat and defend as necessary—yet it did not quell the anxiety they grew for the plan ahead and the lives that could be risked.

The adventurer had half a mind to believe that, perhaps, with the blessing of light, it could be done alone. To spare the others from a fate at the hands of garleans was ideal, though their fate would be left in questionable waters—something the scions would also be squarely against. With numbers down, and every resource needed, the risk was not worth the probable reward. But they were not beyond formulating other scrapped plans to avoid any more loss of life on behalf of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.

Standing alone in Mor Dhona outside Cid’s workshop helped. Outside, away from the soot and smoke-stained air from all the magitek work, left enough clear air to think, to remember, to keep their mind alert for the steps above.

For what temporary plans may have risen in those quiet moments, there was one already in place. A form of espionage, by simply blending in and infiltrating their castrum they would have enough to form a credible threat and viable rescue. To that effect, there was a salute to remember, a disguise to don, and a plan to be carried out by sheer courage and some parts luck—Hydaelyn’s silence guaranteed it.

Even so, in this moment of respite, the warrior of light remained vigilant and aware. Keeping their senses to the quiet of Mor Dhona with only the sounds of the market as background noise. At the nearby entrance, where their glance sometimes drifted, they caught Y’shtola mid-stride returning to the small settlement. Expecting nothing more than a drive-by greeting—an expectation of purpose in every step, a place to be a task to take on—the adventurer gave a singular nod in greeting. Though her path seemed to veer in their direction prior, it shifted to meet them outside the workshop’s entrance.

“I could not blame you for seeking fresh air.” She started in mild tones, “The fumes that magitek sometimes exude can be nauseating on any given day.”

It garnered a tilted smile from them, some hesitation, and a short nod in agreement. Easier to get away from smoke than the nerves that crawled and itched under skin.

“Cid Garlond is one of the greatest technical minds I’ve come across—what talent he lacks in magicks is made up for in ingenuity.” A beat, “if there is anyone, we would put our faith in, he is certainly an excellent choice. Though I’m sure he doesn’t need my word to prove or gain the confidence of those around him.”

But the though was nice and Y’shtola’s word is worth more than they cared to admit. Cid had done enough to prove a viable ally in the short time they spent together alongside Alphinaud—her vouching only added to the already growing relation.

Y’shtola briefly looks to the workshop doors just a ways away, saying, “May I request your opinion on a matter that I would hope could stay between us?”

It brings pause. Though it was better to assume that whatever her request was would be innocuous at best, nothing worth fawning or gawking over, the idea of sharing something inherently secret however had a different taste to it. Y’shtola was always shrouded in some level of secrecy, her aim and goals were often aligned but her thought process and information known were often kept at arm’s length from any inquirers.

It was safe to say she often relegated what information she shared to the bare minimum—more that what was shared was all that was needed to know in the moment, and any peripheral details were kept well within her own well of knowledge.

“I don’t see why not.” The adventurer answers, paying closer attention now than before.

“Could it be that even what may seem the worse comes to bare—you remain so willing to pursue confrontation.” Her words confuse them at first, enough that furrowed brow could be construed for displeasure from the start. “—or” she goes on, “is it that my expectations of you to remain so resolute seemed to have waned.”

The adventurer’s expression turns incredulity, and fairly so. After endless battles to save those of the realm and those around them, what could have spoken to a more resolute soul? That dark looming fear and realization of death, their fallibility placed at the forefront, had placed something solid in their heart—an indefatigable drive. What more was there to offer in proof?

“Verily, your silence has become multitudinous.” She says in lighter tones, ear twitching, “If I have caused offense, it is not my intent.”

They shake their head lightly, “I lack resolve?”

“Quite the opposite.” She clarifies, “To my point, your actions speak to a seemingly unnatural resolve. As our challenges grow in difficulty, you grow in obstinacy. Be it here and now, or those in the past, you still seem to traverse the path most untoward.”

It is not something that they have not heard before in more or less words—but again her words are worth more in mind—the same sentiments often shared after each past perilous and impossible battle. They found no reason to say more to aid the point so frequently made. To that effect, Y’shtola opted for a silence of her own, her quiet stare—the slightest quirk of brow and a gaze that grew more inquiring with every passing moment—waited for a response beyond a subtle nod.

“If you believe that current events would change my mind about my path forward,” the adventurer stars, words said carefully yet confidently knowing they would remain under her scrutiny, “I can promise that I will continue to follow this path with the Scions.”

“As I expect.” Y’shtola says quickly, though still took on a pensive look. “Does that imply that loss has no effect on you or your resolve?”

“Well it—” another pause, thinking on the question. “It should embolden my resolve, strengthen it.”

“ _Should_.” She repeats, “It does not guarantee that it does.”

A belief that Y’shtola’s actions never come without purpose only fueled that growing fire of a question that echoed soundly like a ripple in a pond. Seeking company, even in conversation, in a time like now seemed so beyond her. It felt well out of the bounds for need or purpose, but really an additional factor to her interactions—never truly the point. This interaction, they guessed was no different, and begged the question:

_What is she looking for?_

On the other hand, it was nice after everything to have a solitary moment with her once more, to put a layer of reality over the memory’s past—even if it was under her endless scrutiny. That fear of loss seemed to still linger, but every moment here seemed to wash it away like waves lapping upon the shores. Y’shtola is alive and well, seemingly unfazed by events to those that only briefly observe her. Her eyes never losing their telltale glimmer of perseverance—or impatience.

“Are you the same?” The Warrior of light asks simply.

“In what manner?”

“Loss has no effect on you.”

Y’shtola continues to look at the adventurer, head slightly tilted. “You’ll have to clarify.”

Another bout of confusion then and hesitation by the implication of further explanation, but they went on regardless, clarifying. “When you lose someone, your resolve is unchanging, but it still affects you in different ways.”

“What ways?”

“Well—I’m sure that varies from person to person.” They reply slightly amused yet not lacking in some bemusement.

“How has it affected you, Warrior of Light?” Her tone shifts, baring more in stern rebuttal rather than casual conversation. “Your resolve is unchanged, in fact your demeanor seems no different now than it was before. It is almost as if it hasn’t had any effect on you in the slightest.”

The next question to bare on shoulders tickled by nerves and tortured by hesitation. There had to be something, by the adventurer’s knowledge of her, that Y’shtola could see about them that begged such scrutiny be required—or was it that she could not see anything that deemed this necessary. Brow furrowing briefly, “I could ask you the same.”

“Would you receive the same answer?” When the adventurer does not answer, even diverts their gaze, she goes on. “What remains unsaid about the Waking Sands.”

Her words brought back memories of the Waking Sands—the bodies, the blood, and most important. the uncertainty. That the last moment they and Y’shtola would have together would have been at Camp Bronze Lake, preparing to pass good news on to allies and friends. The warm air, her soft smile, and that final feeling of triumph after a relentless battle all lingering in the steamed and misty air.

“I think you know as well as I do,” the adventurer begins again, “that somethings are better left unsaid. Probably better to remain focused on the task at hand.”

Y’shtola’s eyes narrowed, “Your ability to deflect is not as proficient as you believe it to be. Though I agree with your sentiment, there are some weights that are not meant to be carried alone. Worse that should you find that weight unbearable, that it becomes what breaks your ever-standing resolve.”

“Where do you place your weight then?” Though the question was said as a rebuttal its wording left an odd air, gaining a half scoff.

“The Scions.” Said plainly, “As I have stood with them and shared their burdens, I share mine with them as well. Urianger is unequivocally a good listener.” The last bit added in humor though her tone was unchanging.

“Then you are asking me to share that weight with you?”

“No.” She says, deflating the adventurer initially, “I am recommending you find someone you trust.”

“Implying that… you don’t believe that I trust you.”

“I have made no such implication. If you feel as though your trust is well placed within me, I wouldn’t not squander such trust.”

It takes more silence—not that they did not trust Y’shtola, if anything she felt the most trustworthy. But it was saying it, bringing it to this newly placed reality that created a level of hesitation.

It was the first time—after that moment in the Waking Sands—that they realized everything truly felt so heavy, as if the memories began to take on an unusual weight. Even with primals, and the other challenges presented, nothing sat heavier than those slack jawed faces, the fear that the scions and Y’shtola were dead and missing, that it was possibly the end and there was nothing they could have done to help. Even the happier memories brought a level of overpowering sadness with the accompanying thought that it all was almost lost.

“I wouldn’t know what to do with the weight.” The adventurer says finally, “I wouldn’t know how to share it. I have never seen anything like that, I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know what I am supposed to feel.”

“What you should and should not feel is not for myself or others to decide. If that the cause of what you’ve witnessed, then what becomes the result is nothing more than a matter of circumstance, and your truth to hold.”

“I don’t know—it doesn’t feel right.” The adventurer says plainly, “I just want to help.”

The guilt had stood for some time—knowing that there was a chance that even if they had been present there was a chance that the results may have been the same. It was impossible to carry hate for so long, like carrying coals ablaze in hand and heart that snuffed out everything else with its smoke. The frustration—a work in progress. Admittedly action was the only way that the adventurer knew how to enact change. It created a newly impatient temperament, though knowing everything had its place and time, that impatience to act swiftly stood firm.

“And so, you have.” Y’shtola says simply, yet softer in tones, “Whether or not you see it, your presence now has cause for confidence. Faced with an event that many others would crumble to, you have chosen to fight for the lost and ones we have not yet lost. That alone is enough.”

Should whatever lingered for those lost—that looming shadow of dread, the snuffed hatred, even that ghoulish guilt—continued to act as an ever-dragging weight it would indeed cripple them in their plans to rescue, plans to fight for their freedom. The garleans would not spare a moment to end their lives, nor would it payoff to be overcome with trepidation for things yet to even happen.

They nodded donning a smile that was more somber than joyous, more relieved than content.

“Be ready Warrior of Light.” Y’shtola said with a smile of her own as she began to take a few steps away. “We will need you with a clear head and, more importantly, clear heart.”


	4. Privacy of Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faster out because it is certainty a remaster of a past chapter (if you know you know) with some adjustments here an there, next chapter should be 100% new addition. dialogue heavy for whatever reason, half edited/reviewed. enjoy.

The silence of The Rising Stones at night is stark in difference to its noise and energy in the day. The new location sparked new attitudes, new conversations, and new allies.

Even among the new space, the same challenges still seemed to arise; primals being summoned by their beast tribe worshippers, the Garlean Empire leaving blips and hints of activity promoting acute paranoia, and the challenges of a people, more specifically the domans, coming to light. It continues to keep the Scions of the Seventh Dawn occupied day or night.

Even the Seventh Heaven seemed to become livelier and more busied with the members of their troop passing by or stopping for meal, drink, and conversation.

Earlier that same day in a moment of respite, the Warrior of Light spent their time entertaining the attentions of the doman children and speaking with Alphinaud about his newfound revelations on the future of Eorzea. All the while picking up another offhand title at the end of a friendly spar—Guardian of Eorzea.

It goes without saying that listening to the declarations of a young Leveilleur or the exciting aspirations of the doman children was something they had no issue entertaining. Alphinaud had always been, and perhaps will continue to be, growing in thought, process, and consideration and being the earpiece to this was a gift of its own. On the other side, the joy and hope that the Doman children exuded with ease spread like wildfire and held an exuberant energy. Both, in tandem with some sparring with Hoary and Coultenet, had raised their spirits for the day that seemed to carry well into the night.

Under Mor Dhona’s night sky and shimmering stars, the adventurer found the silence comforting. They chose to sit on a lone bench among the quiet few who still traversed Revenant Toll’s streets in the night.

The spot is partially tucked away from paths of common travel within the settlement’s walls; to find solace outside the bounds of their new headquarters, even at night, was a difficult task knowing that there were many bound to stop and wish for conversation, guidance, or attentions to upcoming tasks to be weary of.

Their weapon leans against the stone of the wall behind the bench, armored elbows set on knees, hands clasped together, and aimless gaze at the ground.

“Your ability to hide is improving.” It is Y’shtola, known without even looking up, by voice and curled tip of grey pattens in peripherals.

“A skill only grows when practiced.” They retort, only pausing to think for a moment. “Though, to say I am hiding means I have something to hide from.”

“Or _someone_.” She says, provoking their gaze to find hers. Y’shtola stands with a small cup in her hand just outstretched to offer. It is strange, admittedly, a gesture not recognized. Y’shtola had often been and continues to be so paradoxically distant. That she, while adamant in her contribution to the scions, still remained an unknown and ultimately private figure. Knowing that, this gesture was inherently friendly beyond that reputation and strange, nevertheless.

The adventurer took the steaming beverage, posture straightened with no less than a nod in thanks. “Chamomile.” Y’shtola’s words provoked by their curious inspection of the libations shared. “Nights here are chilled in comparison to our past Ul’dah headquarters. Additionally, it will help keep warm while you _hide_.”

“I’m not hiding.” The cup cradled in palms to collect the warmth of the glass before taking a careful sip. The warm cup of tea is well needed. Y’shtola was right, the nighttime weather of Mor Dhona chilled down to the marrow of bones in comparison to Vesper Bay. The chittering of teeth is an urge resisted before her through nothing more than an act of self-conceit—they would not dare be bested by the weather under the attention of the archon. Silly as it was, it was the only space for pride that could have been held.

“There is no shame in seeking privacy.” She says, her hand upturning among small shrug, choosing to sit alongside them on the bench. “You are entitled to moments alone, in peace, just as anyone else.”

“Ah.” It is the sound of a minor epiphany, held just above steam warming cheeks, “Is that what you do when you are not so easily found?” casually posed question disturbing steady steam before a longer sip of tea.

“Had I _known_ my presence were required, or that you found yourself seeking it I may have made myself more available to you.” It is an answer that catches them off guard, causing a rough cough at the wrong intake of air that was more tea than air.

Between the harsh coughs and attempts to reply, Y’shtola merely chuckles, waves a hand in response. “No need to explain.” Y’shtola assures, her mild simper gaining on amusement. “I do advise catching your breath before retorting, if that _is_ your plan.”

After some short time—throat thoroughly cleared--they attempt to amend the self-dictated blunder, “what I meant, I have found myself curious about what exactly you do outside of the Rising Stones.” It can be assumed that Y’shtola still tends to Limsa Lominsa’s strife with kobolds and sahagins but found themselves curious to any other ventures Minfillia may bestow or ones she may take on of her own volition. “But I’m sure they are more important than ne interrupting you.”

“Though the challenges are ever-changing, the primals remain my focus. It is rare that my actions diverge from the interests of the scions.”

“But not impossible.” It is more of a question than a point to be made. They would never doubt Y’shtola’s focus at any moment. It makes her raise a brow but give no response. It gives time to finish the tea, cradling the empty cup in hand and warmth regained.

She shifts against the bench, hands were folded in the same and familiar neat pattern that they usual did, fingers cascading among one another, loosely laced. Her legs coming to cross. “Admittedly, I assume that should you beckon me, it would be along those parameters that your request may fall.”

They nod in response, though noting that any deviation would simply be a means to hear her input with no expectation of her joining any venture presented. That alone held immense value.

“I noticed your sparring earlier today.” Y’shtola says, another surprise. If memory served, she was not in the apparent crowd that began to gather. She must have sensed the confusion, saying, “as a witness in passing.” Her gaze wanders out to the distant parts of the Toll as she speaks. “The site of your skirmish was in my path to return to Revenant’s Toll.”

The Warrior of Light shares this clarity as a near inaudible, _hm_ , before the silence between them grows comfortably among the quiet sounds of the night.

“Anything about it worth noting?” The Adventurer asked, then quickly clarified, “about the sparring.”

“Considering that I only saw, mayhap, mere seconds of it? I doubt that if there was a point of note, I would have missed it.” Y’shtola says.

_Good point._ Said to themselves, slowly nodded in succession to this presented logic.

“Though I did notice.” She beings again, “Your opponent was not the necessary skill to pose as a true challenge.” Y’shtola says, then without missing a beat, “I would recommend a more challenging foe, perhaps even of higher skill than your own. Perhaps one where when you are outnumbered, it’s clear that you are outnumbered.”

“ _Ah_.” It does not dissuade their mood but only brings it to a point of slight chagrin—not for Hoary but themself. Though time passes all the same, the strength accrued since the time they met had increased well beyond even their own expectations. However, reminding themselves that the little events was more of a game than an actual challenge subdued those thoughts.

“You were being kind.” She points out.

“You believe so?"

“I know so. It is not a slight on Hoary’s skill or ability nor Coultenet —they are both very skilled fighters and together they make a _nearly_ undefeatable pair.” Her palm lifts and upturns from its position to her point, “The blessing you possess may protect you from the will of primals, but it does not make you completely what you are.” A beat, “a shield is not a sword.”

In the air of what was being said there was some space to bask in the compliment—even if it was not one, it felt like one. The title Warrior of Light came with the understanding that the hallmark of character was the echo. Of course, there were others with the same gift, but none latched the title into nearly a name on anyone else like they did to the adventurer.

They fell back to against the bench in this new mood and growing silence, setting the glass on the arm rest adjacent. In the moment, they noticed how close they sat next to one another. It is not without noting that the size of the bench was at fault. Even the remaining space was enough to set the cup between them but not without it touching one or the other.

They began to wonder what might run through Y’shtola’s mind, what stray thoughts she held that she never chose to voice in a silence like that. Though the adventurer’s stoicism was one of note, Y’shtola’s silences were often far more curious ones. Perhaps she thought of the days to come, or the quiet of the night. They wondered if she sought out personal endeavors and what those endeavors would even begin to look like. Who was Y’shtola when she was not a Scion of the Seventh Dawn or an Archon—or did she ever step away from those titles for even a moment?

“What has kept you awake?” The Warrior of Light asks, clearing their throat once more, “even at this hour, it is late into the night.”

“Indeed, it is.” It is dismissive when she says it, “I could very well ask you the same. Though, had I not noticed you here I may have taken to sleep by now.”

A singular brow peaks, “don’t let my being here keep you from sleep.”

She chuckles, low and sweet in the night air, “your consideration is appreciated; however, I’ve quite taken to the quiet here and I am not stranger to the chill.” She gently waves a hand in the air as if to wave the offer away. “However, if you wish to be left alone, I would seldom deny you such privacy.”

“What privacy I would gain by your leave would not match the pleasure of your company. Your presence is always welcome.” They say mildly. “Besides, the night is very… charming.”

It makes her scoff, “is the night so charming to steal you away from sleep? Is it that simple of reason?” said with a subdued sting of tart in her words.

The adventurer’s nod is curt, confident, “everything else is complicated.”

She is silent just long enough for it to take hold, then said. “Mayhap I have become more accustomed to the idea of your company. If may be candid, it was not my original purpose.”

Y’shtola does not hesitate, she never has—not without purpose. It is no dramatic pause. They can tell, while waiting for clarification, by the small twitch in her ear—she is listening. She repositions herself to lean forward, weight braced on palms against the bench’s edge.

Her look is slant when her head turns, “You are no ordinary adventurer.”

They snort, the smile shared is crooked, “If you’re trying to call me strange...”

Y’shtola rebukes them through the brevity of her smile that is no quicker than the twinkle of stars. “I cannot begin to believe that this path is easy for you.” Her voice turns to clarity, the austerity present in tone and strain in shoulders. “To carry the burdens of Eorzea upon your shoulders often creates suffering within. I believe your resolve; however, I cannot help but doubt that your evenings without sleep can only be the work of the charm of night.”

It gives reason to pause, their expression coming to fall, and she only sits back.

“That is to say—you are no ordinary adventurer, but still a person nonetheless, as we all are.” Y’shtola clarifies. “Thus, I believe it fair to ask you once more—“ It is the first time since she sat that she took to really looking at them, to their knowledge, “what keeps you from sleep?”

They laugh, in a way that lacks humor. A question with so many answers and yet it felt repetitive to say. “There are some faces that never leave you in the day.” They say quietly, “Some are just too familiar. There are others that haunt the night.”

The echoes of those faces, presence still ring loudly in mind. They are phantoms that dance under sun beams basking in the freedom of their mind like an open field of tall grass and returned in the night haunting them in the depths of pitched shadows, peeking and watching. Distorted and mangled, unknown yet known—some just never leave, and some part was afraid to let them go. Some were the hopes they let get away, others were just a product of the guilt—creations of their own mind, a lack of skill, ability, perseverance to save them. They reminded them often, and they never forget.

When Y’shtola places her hand, she places just at their wrist and it jerks them away from the thoughts presiding, “You are not alone.” It is spoken softly, assuredly, as if it could perhaps be all that is needed to scatter the lingering shadows and drawing their gaze.

The light of the ether faintly reflects against light teal eyes, as if the stars waited to burn only in the endless pools of her iris, that they no longer belonged to the limitless skies but to her. There are no eyes that look at him that way, that hold such clarity and comfort, holding such a court among the cosmos. The stars do not move here without her gaze, the moons do not shift here without her word— they dared not move unless she commanded it. The adventurer felt no greater than the stars that glimmered in her eyes set to burn for eons if only to one day be reflected in her eyes.

It is unfamiliar and frightening in its way of charming them as quickly as the night, but it is a fear welcomed into their heart as if it could overshadow what fear may have already taken hold.

They remained there together for what feels like another passing eternity before the skies dark black and blues began to trade for lighter purple and orange hues. Though their eyes had drifted to that of the sky above and silence prevailed more than any lingering conversation, Y’shtola had left her hand in its place among them, in their charge and her words echoing in mind endlessly.

_You are not alone._


	5. Shade of the Tree

Y’shtola exudes confidence. It is an unquestionable statement. It was never clearer than in that moment. Even when she carried a level of uncertainty it was dressed in pelerine, elegantly draped yet sheer enough to see through if watching and listening carefully.

In the murk the abandoned tunnels deep underneath the sands of Ul’dah, Y’shtola exudes confidence.

She always stood tall, spoke with clarity, and rarely ever let circumstance change her demeanor nor focus and now was no different. It was enough to make them doubt their own growing distress, teeming against the spine and racking every bone with a chilling spike of anxiety. Nothing about their current situation felt deserving of a proper level of confidence, instead beget quite the opposite.

Yet Y’shtola smiled.

What truly brought on a new weight was what hid in that smile. Though Minfilia and Thancred were none the wiser, having their own separate moment, the adventurer could only find their attention focused on Y’shtola’s mannerisms beyond what they present. For her to be so forthcoming would make it entirely too easy to steal away the opportunity for discovery and Y’shtola was the absolute proponent of discovery.

Minfillia had already begun her trek onward at Y’shtola’s behest, but the hesitation on their part fell to observation—looking for a sign, more than just her spoken words, something that would not create another weight, another face in the shadows.

Though Thancred merely shrugged, Y’shtola’s demeanor changed. Her expression sobered with a singular nod left to share.

That would have to be enough. It was not, but it would have to be.

-][-

The room was silent, the late of the night lacking the ambient noises of Gridania’s active community. The low lighting of lamps casting long shadows across its wooden floors. The bed within is occupied with a slumbering figure tucked well under blankets, the careful and caring work of Y’mhitra who left to find rest of her own.

_“Believe it or not, she always tended to lean towards recklessness.”_ Y’mhitra said solemnly when they had crossed paths in the canopy to speak for a moment. She chuckled shortly then, though the sadness painted the sound, _“As dangerous as it was, she knew the risks.”_ She shared what little details that were shared to her by the elder seedseer on the archon’s condition before departing for well-deserved rest.

_“Her mind must have been made up. She is not one to be swayed otherwise.”_

The Warrior of light took a deep breath, sitting where they believed Y’mhitra occupied since Y’shtola’s form being plucked from the lifestream.

Seeing Y’shtola this way created an endless sinking feeling, as if to be pulled slowly into a void like quicksand, chest filling with anxious and buzzing air. For a while, they only sat in silence, eyes unable to shift away from her resting form—thought at some point feeling odd by staring and took to seeing through the floor between the chair and the bed. Mouth opened for a moment, then closed once more, considering speaking to her in this state, but decided against it. Another deep breath, exasperated at it left nerve tortured lungs, leaning forward to rest forearms on thighs. Head hung low, feeling worse now than the pacing and second guessing even coming to see her now before she was awake and aware.

The adventurer held some hope that she would wake then and there, chastise them for something so apparently innocuous that it would be charted as humor. _I suspect the scions have been reunited_ _if you are spending your time here, s_ he would probably say chastising in her warm way of doing so, or even, _This star must be rid of primals._

The next breath was let out in an aired chuckle at the thought alone. There would not be a need to reply then, no words exchanged otherwise to determine why they chose to keep her company over anything else. Y’shtola would know, she always knows.

She would know what to say here, what words to put together to shed this feeling that bore down on their shoulders. Y’shtola always has a way with words—saying the most by saying the least, a stark opposite to Urianger’s mannerisms. Knowing that no words could even begin to be conjured now, for her, felt like the final nail in the coffin to a heart slowly being chipped away by loss and grief.

Hands curled into each other to a fist for their chin to rest on, elbows perches on knees. Looking at her seemed to bring back the memory of her return.

_The elder seedseers words almost seemed to echo against the odd quiet, as if the forest itself watched in anticipation for what could happen. The sun dimly leaked through the leaves of the guardian tree creating the small rays of light that glimmered against water’s surface with a waning warmth by the coming night. The gentle breeze ensuring the arrival of a particularly colder night._

_Harbored anxiety and apprehension filled such a peaceful place knowing that this could be the last and only chance to reclaim their companion from the lifestream._

_That beacon of light that shimmered before the bark of the tree like the night sky had come early in the day to this little pocket of the universe. Y’shtola’s form breaching the light, alone and bare, and set upon the ground at the hands of elementals that cared to answer the seedseers humble request._

They remembered an urge to run to her, arms outstretched to guarantee her return was not met with the cold of the ground but the warmth of a familiar face. Yet even Y’mhitra was not allowed to approach initially until she was whole and safe. Where Tataru’s tears spurred from sadness to joy at her return and her, it became clear that nerves had prevented any actual movement or action from the adventurer.

Some part of them took shame in that. Given the fear and loss, their best act in response was _nothing_ , the reoccurring silence that plagued a racing mind.

It then spurred the recollection of memories of the archon; times where they stood among their allies discussing plans and a spare glance would catch her deep in thought, when they stood side by side in battle, even those spare moments they had talked privately with one another, the moment on the bench. Y’Shtola made an effort in some ways in those moments to sparingly connect; whether it was an act of kindness in companionship as a fellow scion, or as an act to guide and mentor though the challenges they faced.

Another deep breath, steadier than the last. In a thoughtless moment, hands unfurled to reach out to hers about to place it on top as she did that night outside the Rising Stones yet paused just before. The realization of its invasiveness caused pause. To offer comfort without her signs—that telling look, knowing smile, canted head curious but never confused—left them wondering if the gesture would be okay and thus made their hand slightly recede. There was nothing more the adventurer wanted than to comfort Y’shtola in the same way that she seemed to create comfort for them—knowing or unknowingly. To be unable or unsure to do so felt like a slight on their friendship.

That lone floating hand curled into a fist in frustration, cursing under their breath. It retreated back to meet the other wrapping into another balled fist, gaze returning to the floor.

How was she all-knowing when it came to the winding road of their growing friendship and yet they could only sit and be indecisive on their own ability to take even the right steps. It was frustrating in its own way to not know where the line marked the bounds of their relation and whether treading would harm or aid.

When their gaze lifted to her once more, they were met with the half-lidded gaze of the archon, still in place but aware and awake. First noticed was the change in color of the iris’ that stared back into their own, a ghostly white where a bright seafoam green once was. Presumably, it was an effect of the lifestream but it’s true meaning they would leave for later. Y’shtola did not speak though her gaze stayed glued to the new company found.

Words repeated in their mind, searching for what to say to her now while the moment seemed ample. _Come on, say something._ But no words felt right to say aloud.

All they could think about is how tired she looked. Exhaustion dressed her differently this time. It displayed itself in the relaxed expression, her slow and long gentle breaths, even in the way that she looked at the adventurer, head barely moved if at all when she looked at the half-hunched Warrior of Light.

She looked away, at the ceiling for a moment, letting out a singular audible breath. The sinking feeling in chest began to feel deeper, burrowing further into the depths of their soul to find that beaten and anguished core.

When her eyes closed again, the adventurer muttered out quietly, “I’m sorry.” The apology aired for what felt like more than they could begin to explain. Sorry for not staying in that cave and fighting their way out together, for not finding her sooner, for not knowing what to do or say—the reasons raining down harshly like bouldering hail.

Y’shtola’s eyes opened once more, finding the ceiling again but eventually shifting back to the adventurer.

“ _I know_.” The Warrior of Light said quietly. They knew she would ask why, while knowing full well that she would make it clear after whatever answer given that there was nothing to apologize for. In the end she would probably be right, by reason and logic that she would easily spell out in ten words or less. Her eyes squinted in the same way they did when she smiled though her lips barely moved to curl.

It felt right, in that moment to try again—to gently place their own over the archon’s, and let it rest just atop. Her hand was warm, still under their own and gaze never shifting away. Eyes searching from a sign from her, a shift in gaze, the slight twitch in ear, curve of mouth to show that they should move away and remove their hand. Y’shtola took another long audible breath as her eyes closed.

Seconds passed as the archon chooses to take on the burden of rest and the Warrior of light choosing to remain ever watchful over her throughout the night.

-][-

The challenging wayside cliffs of the Sharlayan territory acts as another steppingstone between missions. Its grassy fields cover crags of the cliffside with a blanket of dew kissed turf. Trickling streams that wind into serpentine paths falling endlessly into murky pools below. It is no mistake that the Warrior of Light stands alone among the marshy overgrowth with no more rippling water and half sunken stones as company. Ahead lies another journey alone, the Great Gubal Library lay in wait.

Had it not been for the splash of pools behind, Y’shtola would have caught them by surprise. It was clear that she did not seek to do so, apparent by choosing footing abreast.

“Master Matoya grows impatient.” Y’shtola speaks lackadaisically. “Less in the name of your task’s completion, nay, she instead prefers her cave returned as it was, in lack of visitors.”

The Warrior of Light half smiles, amused at the apparent tones shared between Master Matoya and Y’shtola.

“It is curious.” Y’shtola says idly looking out beyond the terrain. “You’ve been silent in the past, though now I sense a change within you.” It causes their gaze to shift to her. “I do distinctly recall you taking on the mantle of silence before my time in the lifestream.”

It did not coerce a reply, simply a look aimed beyond the reaches of the horizon.

“I thought it would be safe to assume you to be more— _harrowed_ by the paths you’ve taken and the paths that lie ahead.” Y’shtola admits. “Your propensity for silence parallels your being steadfast in your convictions.”

“I guess there isn’t much to say, but a lot to do.”

“As it always has been.” She concedes, “And mayhap, as it will continue to be.”

“Ever changing, as you all say. Though it feels as though nothing profoundly changes, including the _Warrior of Light_.” It is not a mark of slight or negativity that the title is said to her so distantly. Bu that there were still shoes to fill, deeds to complete, people to save. At times it seemed like it was never enough and that the title itself felt inherently inflated.

She laughs but it is airy, silent almost. “What time you have spent in my absence, I doubt that be the case.” Y’shtola spares a look that, from the corner of their eye, could not be discerned beyond a shimmering glint in pale eyes.

Another moment of silence passes them like a steady breeze. It was rare, in recent times, that moments of solace among the wild could be found. This was especially true while traversing Eorzea with fervent purpose and soon after withdrawing for the next task without esteem for bewildering scenery—let alone with company. What company they did keep, however, was always welcome.

“I am still the same.” The adventurer states as matter of fact. “But you’ve changed.” Spoken plainly by the adventurer, though it was no plain observation. Y’shtola changed. It was difficult to pinpoint the source of this change and what exactly the change was, but she was indeed different. Something was off, and the lifestream had changed her.

For what allies the Warrior of Light did possess, Y’shtola’s companionship was sorely missed more than any other. In her absence, they had remained laconic, taking favor to listening and learning—something gained by observing Y’shtola do time and time again. It made them more attentive and lethal in battle, remaining rarely involved in the manner of strategizing and deciding the next courses of action—a task left to Alphinaud—but never they missed a beat.

In present, something was different. Her words, her actions still held the mannerisms remembered but it felt… more potent. That she held the same characteristics but increased by a degree that became clearly noticeable, at least to them.

“As would be expected.” Her words just as matter of fact in comparison to their own. “It is not everyday that one enters the lifestream. I doubt there would be an expectation for an experience to leave me, let alone any person, the same.”

They smirked then, that never ending logic came to reason away that hunch that surfaced—though that hunch remained. “What was it like?” That curiosity, a desire to know what exactly changed about her provoked a simple question “—in the lifestream.”

Y’shtola is quiet in the way that could silence birds at the wake of the sun. For a moment, the question feels intrusive, as if to breech a forbidden sect of Y’shtola’s recent strife. Expression or form does not give sign to an answer by the way of her stillness among the gentle ripples of the water’s surface.

“At first.” Y’shtola says, her words quiet, “I couldn’t tell where I was or what I was. Just strangely adrift like a twig among a rushing river of life and light, no control, no real direction. It was actually…quite peaceful—like a dream.” A pause, shoulders raising to tense. “After a while, the senses begin to fade, your sense of self, your body and mind just seem to blend into the light, its own shimmering color.” A beat, “Eventually, I truly began to understand where I was, what my fate to be.” 

When the adventurer looks to her, Y’shtola’s eyes are closed, her arms crossed over chest, and chin tilted up as the winds gently wade through loose strands of white hair. It is as if she was reliving it, drifting in the endless stream close to joining the flow and be lost forever. It makes the back of their neck run hot to see Y’shtola in such a way.

“You are but the first to ask.” She says, eyes opening to the lands beyond them, their gaze averts.

“They’re probably just waiting for the right time to ask or know enough to fill in the blanks for themselves.” it is a defense, though knowing that it is a weak one at best, “Besides, I am only an adventurer.”

“Surely not. I would not dare reduce you to something as trivial as a simple adventurer—” It displeases her to hear it be said, it bleeds out in her words. “What hope your deeds have wrought are what mere adventurer’s dream of accomplishing in a lifetime.” She speaks plainly, as not in reverence but as if it were a fact that should be spoken as such.

It is not a new sentiment in recent, and it would not be the last time they would hear such words but to hear it from Y’shtola is something worth noting. For all her practicality, it was rare to garner praise without prompt or action.

“My apologies.” It is a curt reply with an uneasy shift under armor and cloth.

“I can’t imagine what need you to feel that an apology to me is necessary, I only shared what I know to be the truth.” Y’shtola states. It makes their breath briefly unsteady, a momentary flurry of embarrassment that came to pass as quickly as it sparked like a singular flap of butterfly wings trapped in their chest.

The adventurer takes in the view of the bluff’s base, inhaling the boggy air in slow breaths. Thinking of the library that lay ahead and what trails and monster may lie in wait their form shifts to straighten.

“Do you fear what’s to come?”

“I do and do not.” Y’shtola answers, no hesitation, “I’ve known fear to not be what may come, but what outcome may come to fruition.”

“I would have thought you fearless, Y’shtola.” Saying her name feels odd to say aloud, oddly yet remarkably intimate caused by what time she has been away or something distinctly different. When they look to her, the corners of her mouth are curved, eyes narrow in delight.

Another subtle flap of butterfly wings.

“Let it be known that I am fearless one between us.” Y’shtola’s words were nothing short of jest, but not mockingly. The Warrior of Light had known her to dissuade Thancred’s charm in mere words or harsh looks yet was unable to attest as a victim to it—a work of reticence—even now it felt more fond than fearsome.

It brought them to a smile at the thought.

In the new silence that grew between them, the adventurer had not for a second thought as to why Y’shtola chose to stand out in the muggy waters as the day crawled to an effortless end. She had never been without reason for any action. It was well known not to question, the answer was already known between them, and airing it may have spoiled the moment all together. However, there was no time to discern the true purpose, or even raise the question for clarity.

“Thank you.”

The first feeling from Y’shtola’s word was bemusement. It posed a firm question in mind: what could she possibly thank them for? Nothing done was outside the call for action or the directives of the Scions. It was only natural to respond, “For?”

“Y’mhitra informed me that you visited while I rested in the Roost.”

“No one keeps a secret well enough these days.” The adventurer scoffed. They did not doubt that she and Y’mhitra may have discussed it, it was a mark of relief and sadness that she may have never noticed them in the late of the night in an offer of comfort. Then again, perhaps she was too far in the realm of exhaustion to realize it had been them that visited. They look to the sky, the clouds drifting slowly through openings between cliff and rock. “I thought you might never come back—not completely anyway.”

It is an admission that creates a new unfamiliar silence. It was one that forbade from looking to her again. To see a look of dissatisfaction in her expression for something so uncharacteristically saccharine would have brought more embarrassment. It made them grow stiff in stature, chin high, and hands curled into a loose fist.

“When they found your wand and spoke of your soul being in the lifestream.” Their voice is stern, expression hardened, the words spilling out as a dam comes to burst. “I thought they meant to instill false hope of your return. But you were there, alive. I wanted to see you, make sure you were alright. I should have waited like the others. I couldn’t stand the idea that your fate was going to be lost forever and —” It is the subtle touch of a hand that stops them abruptly. Still not daring to share what frustrated gaze took hold in expression with her. The adventurer believed initially that the whole process may have been a long road to false hope; to simply discover her fate rather than bring her back to the land of the living. But that fear, the false hope that turned true underneath the guardian tree was not meant to be shared. It was not her fear to bare.

“You understand that if I were to be faced with the same choice, I would choose it once more— your safety was assured, that is enough.”

It is biting, the commonality in thought. If the choice to save others ever arose, especially those familiar, the Warrior of Light would choose the lives of others before their own in a heartbeat. Y’shtola had not done anything that they would not have if put in the same circumstances. But to risk her life for theirs in any manner—it is, to them, an unfair exchange.

“You have come a long way, Warrior of Light.” She voices, the sound of that well-known title creates a tightening in chest. It felt so distant and detached, far from the feeling that rested within them and the inherent worth that came with it. “You have indeed changed.”

There is a moment where they pause, finally coming to look to Y’shtola where their eyes meet. It is clear how pale her eyes are from the dreamy light teal they once were. There was the starkest of difference about her since returning to the Scions. But moreover, it was the smaller changes that brought a need to pay keener attention to her. Undoubtedly impatient, Y’shtola’s patience seemed to grow shorter, but not in a way that would be extremely noticeable. In fact, it was a moment in the ruins of an abandoned Sharlayan in battle. They thought, initially, that it was due to a lack of bearing witness to the full potential of Y’shtola’s magicks that it came as a surprise when her attacks held so much power and fury to them.

“You do not have to be so gentle.” Y’shtola remarks, blinking. “My feelings are not so fragile that you cannot say what you are avoiding.”

“What does it mean?” They ask, trusting her words, “Your eyes.”

“It is the aether.” She says, as if it explained everything. However, when they remained silent, she continued. “When my aether interacted with the Lifestream, it came at the cost of my ability to see as I did before.”

Blindness then—but with doubt. She moved and maneuvered as she did before, even now her gaze seemed locked on their own. It was impossible to believe that she could not see. But when her head shook, they asked, “As you did before? What do you see?”

Her arm came to link about their own, the hand sharing a gentle squeeze, before resting just atop their own. “A radiance, it is different from others. It is not a complete picture that normal sight would yield. Some small details may escape me from time to time. However,” her eyes squint briefly, “you are… easily distinguishable from the others. I can sense your presence as a way of seeing.”

Her gesture unexpected but not deterred, in combination with her answer it begets fondness, a spark like tinder. “Radiant. It is not a compliment I’ve received yet.”

She hums in a way of amusement, a shake of her head, “You are the first I have told. Undoubtedly, I can assume that Matoya has noticed but has yet to make her knowledge known to me and Alphinaud would surely notice if he has not already.” 

“Would it be so bad if they knew?”

“No.” Her head tilts but says nothing more to answer. “Your armor has changed.” She states, and it is almost enough to make them doubt her new blindness once more, almost.

“My greatest worry.” The adventurer’s grin going crooked, gently laying their opposing hand over hers.

Her narrowed expression takes hold for seconds until she begins to laugh—one that crinkles the corners of her eyes, gaining a hold of arm in grip. It is new, crisp like the air after fresh rain. The adventurer’s heart thuds at the sound of it.

They were not sure when the distance between them had inevitably closed, but they stood under the rocky cliffside side by side, shoulder to shoulder, arms hooked for a time. There were a number of questions lingering within that drifted away and settled in like pebbles dropped in a lake.


	6. Coldest Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The middle bit is random, I just like F'lhaminn. May be updated after like post posting editing - apologies for any errors.

The bone chilling cold made nothing easy. Had it not been for the cold resistant lining of armor adopted when Ishgard became a makeshift base of operations, the Warrior of Light believed they might have frozen where they stood but instead took energy to hide what visible shivers might surface. The idea of returning to the rising stones once more did not excite or bore, but it was as things were these days. Task after task, full of attempts to return things to as they should be—though they honestly began to believe such things were now considered impossible. The Rising Stones would become exactly what the Waking Sands grew to be. An odd and hollow tomb of memories past.

However, as the adventurer began to follow the others off, Y’shtola waved them down. It was a request to speak in private at first, they assumed, to speak on present matters in Ishgard. It struck as odd initially, their privately experienced moments often not created by verbal request to participate but unspoken invitations between them. Some eyes drifted in sparing perfunctory glances but gave no other hints to curiosity in the sudden request and simply continued on their respective paths.

“It’s about Thancred.” She initially clarified once they had assumed privacy. “Do you believe him to be well?” It was not a waning attention span that caused her to look off, but the ever-watchful senses of the archon seeking out bodies that may have drifted too close to her liking.

Even without sight, she still was as observant as ever.

“Yes.” Short, hurried by the realization that a silent nod would not translate well. “Like you,” they explained, “the same, but no longer the same.” A beat, “If that makes any sense.”

“You’ve become more perceptive than you once were, it seems.” Y’shtola said mildly, “But to know you have sensed it as well brings great comfort, as it does distress.”

“He’s aged.” Said to the same of tune of _I don’t know_.

“He has.” She murmured, mildly exasperated, “My methods of perception have changed; thus I admittedly missed the signs at first. I believe Thancred’s relationship to magicks has changed, irreparably so.”

It was the adventurer’s’ turn to check for drift ears that dared to listen, fully understanding the privacy Y’shtola had requested, then asked, “In what way?”

“For the worst, I’m afraid.” Though her head held high, what misgivings to such confidence were bled out in words. “I would strongly suspect that his ability to manipulate aether has been compromised. Simply put,” a beat and a mindless wave of her hand, “He may no longer be able to wield magicks.”

They unfolded their arms to run at the back of neck, it is a detail that brought stress. “An effect of being in the lifestream.”

“Precisely.” When she took to explaining it was not that of a lecture, but a developing understanding of her own, the likes of an investigation. She explained why he delayed in Thancred’s search for the scions, the methods that he would have to rely on without the help of magicks, and the hesitation at the news of a new primals birth unto the world.

The silence seemed to settle between disappearing clouds of warm breaths between them, growing longer every moment words were not shared.

“Do you think it’s permanent?” They asked.

Her hands came to rest at the back of her hips, head tilting down in thought. “Mayhap, but I have no proof to discern the truth from theory.”

“Not without asking.” They quipped, offering a half shrug.

“Aye, not without asking.” She echoed, letting out a quiet sigh, only framed by the cloud of air that left her. “But I cannot be so sure that he would be so forthcoming with the development. As you have said, he has notably aged and not in a way that begets confidence.”

“I wouldn’t say _that_.” The adventurer retorted, “Not to make light of it, but I believe he’s aged fairly well.”

“A point besides.” Y’shtola says, chiding in tone and expression. “The manner of his fleeting youth is not more than a clue to the situation at hand.”

“What do you suggest we do?” They asked, quietly clearing their throat, “If there is anything.”

“Nothing, for now. I would hope that we could keep this between us, at least until I can gather more information of Thancred’s predicament.”

It is clear that telling the adventurer was not necessarily a work in effort but a desire to share her concerns with someone who would not variably worry over the matter. At least not in the way that Tataru or Alphinaud would set their minds on finding a solution. Thus, they would leave it to her to investigate and keep things as she requested—between them. However, it brought another question to mind, a change in subject, but not one so far from their choice topic.

“If that is the case,” The adventurer said, expression sobering, “then I feel it’s only fair to ask if you are okay.”

“Well enough.” Y’shtola said, words curt. “This situation bares only some of my worry, nothing beyond that regard.”

“I meant just you. Thancred wasn’t the only one effected. I would like to think that my ability to perceive extends over all my companions.”

Her chin tilts up in the slightest way, a sign that she is listening but perhaps reluctantly now. And even in that, they could have read her mannerisms incorrectly. They were reminiscent of her and yet still not completely. The same, but not the same.

“It feels as though you’ve grown a little more… carefree.” They say sheepishly, hazarding airing the opinion. “Like you’re fighting your last fight, every fight.”

At first her eyes briefly narrow, “I do not try to guess fate.” The tilt of her head noticeable, almost exaggerated in its movement. “I have no way of knowing if a battle is to be my last, thus worth the appropriate effort—if you sense something amiss, pray make it clear.”

“A brush with death can often trigger recklessness—”

“A lesson _I_ do not need.” She interjects, though calmly, it still holds an unsettling harshness about it. “Be it were your perception keener, mayhap your words would have an effect. What you may see as recklessness is naught more than the bounds of my charge, I am a scion and it, the life _I_ hath chosen—“

“Even if it’s not required?” They interrupt, stifling earnest tones with vocal rigidity, “Is that part of your charge?”

“If it comes to be, _yes_.” When she inhales its sharp, “But if you are so keen to teach, then I implore you— what lesson is there to learn from one who so willingly walked into the depths of the void? One who so eagerly entered the crystal tower without word? Cid and company and mayhap a singular sharlayan—one you’ve yet to even gain any knowledge of in intention nor skill—would be the better choice in companion for something so dangerous? Though the scions rarely stand at your side in your ventures against primals, have we not been at the ready to assist when needed? I begin to wonder if they afforded you the same courtesy.” Her chuckle is incredulous before she goes on, “I think it funny that you believe _I_ am the one between us that needs lecturing in the matter of recklessness.”

“It was not—” Her palm raised to halt their words.

“Aye, it wasn’t.” She says dismissively, “Luckily, I know full your journey, and I need not to be appraised of more nor need hear explanations. Your concern is noted, but not needed.”

They stand stiff, posture going unintentionally rigid, as if to be chided by a superior officer.

“Anyroad, if there are naught more for you to say or more lessons you wish to part with, I should be on my way.” Y’shtola says as cold as the air around them, “Krile may have charmed Master Matoya for now, but who can say how long it will last.”

She did not wait for a farewell but simply turned on her heel. The Warrior of Light watched her walk away until she could no longer be seen, standing alone in the cold for moments to breeze by like the frigid winds.

-][-

Everything was and was not as it once was. The return of F’lhaminn, Hoary Boulder and Coultenet spelled the beginning of perhaps the beginning of a brighter future. It, at a minimum, was a sign that things for the Scions were beginning to look much better. It was a reunion of sorts, for those who could fare against the rising suspicions of the Crystal Braves reunited with those forced to flee. The air of the room retained a palpable joy, even in light of recent realizations of loss—though now that was becoming daringly commonplace, that it in itself seemed like a constant state of being.

Even among that new air, one of joy and celebration, much lingered on the adventurer’s mind. Scions still remained missing, the companions seemed effected permanently by the effects of their escape, and there was still so much more to do as conflict seemed to rise at any given moment.

However, the company shared here was enough to lift the mood that permeated off of not only themselves but Alphinaud and Tataru as well. As it stood, it was nice, in the whirlwind of troubles that seemed to surface, to find respite once again among friends.

After a time, the adventurer sat at one of the unoccupied tables within the Rising Stones among the buzzing conversations that rose within the room. It was no longer a manner of practice to find comfort in simply watching the joy of others to derive their own. More in, the ability to sit in bask in an ambiance that was not teeming in battle or conflict was a form of relaxation in itself these days.

“May I?” F’lhaminn, in her purple and gold ensemble carrying a tankard in hand. After a small nod from the adventurer, she approached to place the drink before the adventurer, hand gently placing on their shoulder. “Its only water, lest you wish for a stronger drink.”

“Thank you.” Said simply with another nod but in thanks. They were of mind to leave soon to continue the journey beyond with Alphinaud at their side.

“There is something about you.” She begins but then smiles to herself under spectacles perched just at the end of her nose. “You are not of the same spirits I remember, not down, but certainly tired.”

The adventurer only half smiled then, unsure of how to reply— _tired_ noted as an understatement. Since her arrival F’lhaminn had been nothing more than Minfilia’s mother. Though her role in the Scions remained clear in its relation to Minfilia, what she now chose to do with the fate of her daughter was a considerable blur. Granted, her focus after her return seemed to be the reconciliation of relationships—those missed in their absence were found under the effects of her rekindling warmth. That said, F’lhaminn remained nothing more than the distant mother figure well posed in kindness and consideration for those under her charge.

“There’s no reason to be shy—would it that Hoary and Coultenet spoke volumes of you in our time away from Revenant’s Toll, I assumed you would have by now taken on a more… vocal personality. The hallmark of heroes— _talkative_ and eager to share their triumphs.”

“I think I am, at the moment, lacking in triumphs to share.” A small yet bitter truth.

Even at the recollection of their friends from various fates, and the end of the Dragonsong war within reach, a new problem seemed to cover every triumph almost instantly. If there was time, celebration would be held, but there never seemed to be any.

“I would beg to differ.” She smiles, warmth in her expression, tilting her chin to look just above the frames of her spectacles. “still, I’m sure that wouldn’t help, nor cover the base of your troubles—the very clear ones anyway.”

With bemusement in twisted brow on behalf of the Warrior of Light, they ask “What troubles are unclear?”

She let out a breath of amusement, “I have seen more loss and grief than I would care to admit, it’s a stark difference to anything else. However, the way you have placed yourself, I would expect that there is more than just grief and loss lingering within.” A pause, “ _yet,_ that is just a guess. I don’t wish to impose on something otherwise very private or personal.”

It takes a moment, but the adventurer loosely waves a hand in the air, “I appreciate your consideration.” It is dismissive, they understand, but to burden F’lhaminn with more beyond her worries for Minfilia seemed selfish. Whatever though that had risen to reply was interrupted by the added presence of another.

“When Ascilia was younger,” F’lhaminn began agian, “she was so tenacious— _and_ very engaging, even as a child.” She began, her gaze shifting, though her hand remained gently upon their shoulder. “But when she was discouraged, she very quickly and adeptly found a way to not only raise her spirits but those around her. Even so there were moments that even she needed to be comforted.” 

Her silence lingers for a moment, the gradual fall of her express spoke to a sorrow that was noticeably clear to them, and its source know clearly. However, she returned to the warm smile shared, “Whatever troubles you, Warrior of Light, know that we may often times offer comfort.”

Among the entrance walkway, Alphinaud’s form stood at the center of the room, searching at his chosen spot among the commotion. It is not until his gaze crosses with their own that F’lhaminn lets out a small noise of epiphany, breaking their focus.

“It would seem answers come to light in time.” She said, the touch of her hand lifting to cradle her hands together. “Have peace, all that is wronged turns right in good time.” Her retreat marked the shift of their gaze back to Alphinaud whom beckoned them for perhaps an update on the fate of their dear friend.

-][-

The make of Coerthan Armor was surprisingly warm. Where the Warrior of Light expected it to be able to fare the icy weather, its actual comfort exceeded expectations, clearly designed for more practicality than anything else. The Grand Melee was one that they believed many looked forward to in the hopes of showcasing unity among the City States and their newfound ally, Ishgard.

It was another venture that carried considerable weight in terms of presence, that the Warrior of Light would aid Ishgard instead to their Grand Company seemed a ploy in its own that did not seem to bother that of the others. In some way it felt fair, after playing such a critical role in the Dragonsong war and thus being the driving force of this new forged alliance—allegiances fell behind the simple politics of the matter.

There was some time before it began, and the Warrior of Light had chosen the Forgotten Knight to spend some time preparing; it was not by drink, but once more simply to spend time in the air, among others. Funny enough, be it from familiarity in presence or newly donned armor, many did not bother to speak or converse with them which supplied a sort of privacy.

The hushed conversations between patrons, the patterned noises of boots on seasoned wood floors, and the muffled sound of passing icy winds supplied a calming ambiance to the Forgotten Knight that made it easy to simply be at peace in the moment.

When the time came, or at least drew close to, the Warrior of Light began their trek back out into the snow of Ishgard to join those at the Grand Melee. When they breached the doors, they noticed just beyond at the Aetheryte A familiar form appeared with their own searching gaze. Their eyes locked with that of the familiar ghostly white of the archon.

The adventurer remained still for a moment, attempting to read Y’shtola’s expression upon her approach, and only after she had closed most of the distance did, they decide to approach in tandem.

“Thancred has informed me of the event you are to partake in.” She says, arms crossing over her chest.

They simply nodded in confirmation, though felt remiss to any thing more. It had been some time that passed since they spoke privately, a distance created by a combination of apprehension and consideration. If Y’shtola wanted to speak, they knew that she would when she felt the need or desire to.

“I simply came to wish you good luck.”

An odd silence grew between them, one filled with genuine confusion, “In the Grand Melee?” 

“Yes.” She said, though her brow furrowed, “nevertheless it did also occur to me that I would need to have a word with you—this moment seemed most opportune.”

Another nod, falling into a space of being unsure in what to say to her, then thinking. “Is this about Falcon’s Nest?”

“No— _though_ what I know of it seems to be a brief explanation that Thancred supplied me with, you both handled it well enough.” She paused, brows furrowed, “The detailing of your poisoning is something of measure worth discussion but not at present.”

“ _Ah_.” The Warrior of Light exhales into the cold, the white of breath disappearing quickly under sunlight.

“It seems only fair that I owe you an apology.” Y’shtola’s word fell into an acute focus, her gaze averting for the first time but not in embarrassment but in what looked like frustration and quickly returned to meet the adventurer’s gaze. “In the time that we last spoke in private, your ventures continue to bare the weight of hardship. Though we all lost a friend in Minfilia, you were the one to speak with her last. More so— “, a beat, uncrossing her arms, “Your inquiries prior did not deserve the ire displayed and thus I apologize.”

To say Y’shtola lacked manners was a slight on her character but even so it seemed unusual that she would apologize for a minor spat—if it could even be considered a spat.

“An apology isn’t necessary.” The adventurer says though not lacking some confusion, “I said something you didn’t like—I couldn’t expect you or anyone to like me or what I say all the time.” Though most times that felt untrue; the only _true_ conflict was that against anything that threatened the realm and not simply just people. Ire earned for their ability to thwart plans of enslaving, destroying, or burning this star and not for simply just being.

“Aye.” She concedes, “it felt prudent given the subject of our last conversation and my following reaction—you simply displayed care that one would expect from an ally and friend and I reacted poorly to such.”

“All the same,” offering another languid shrug, “I hope you can understand given the situation, that I was only concerned for your wellbeing—I didn’t mean any offense by it.” They scratched at the back of their neck at her words, half smiling, half shrugging, “Besides, what are friends if not people who say exactly what you don’t want to hear without worry of consequence?”

It perked her brow, some amusement taking her features, “What consequence I could possibly enact on you that would have effect, I admit, I am not privy to that knowledge. Either way, I thank you for displaying such care.”

“If only to return the care I have received.”

It makes her smile, soft and gentle, in the way that seemed to warm the body from the inside out.

“I understand that your competition is soon.” Y’shtola said, “I would not dream of causing your absence.”

“I don’t think they would even consider starting it without me.” Said in light jest, but perhaps held some truth to it.

“Mayhap. I could accompany you to the Gates of judgement, however I would have to return to Krile’s side and could not remain present as spectator.”

The Warrior of light shared a nod then, smile present and began what was a considerable walk from the Forgotten knight to the Gates of Judgement.

“I see that you will be competing on behalf of Ishgard.” Y’shtola remarks, head tilting.

“Yes.” They half considered explaining the source of the decision, but left it for interpretation, plus they assumed Y’shtola would figure the reasoning through process of elimination—aided by Thancred.

“It’s very fitting.”

“You think so?” They said, faintly amused, “It’s surprisingly warm.”

“Your decision, I mean.” She said, smile on her face heard more than seen before glancing in her direction.

“Right.” The Warrior of light cleared their throat, and said, “I thought that being placed against my Grand Company would have been a bigger issue.”

“Unlikely, but worth consideration.” Y’shtola said flatly, “I’m sure Alphinaud and Thancred have glossed over the assumed politics of the decision.”

“Something I’m better left out of.” They admitted mildly.

“I would say differently,” Y’shtola rebutted, raising a hand in a loose gesture, “Less to the lack of your political prowess and more pointedly at your moral compass.” A pause, “not to say you lack political prowess. I have yet to see you take the initiative to engage in it.”

“I haven’t seen a reason to.” They replied, “I haven’t seen you done the same—unless you count your being a liaison for Limsa Lominsa.”

Y’shtola looked off at the passing aetheryte, eyes partially squinting, “I wouldn’t necessarily consider that a political venture.”

“Then?”

“Required obligation. Should Limsa fall victim to a primal attack then—well, it goes without explanation. My being there was more to offer help in matters that align with ours and pass on that knowledge to that scions.”

“I thought you and the admiral may be more familiar by your interactions with one another.”

Y’shtola shook her head lightly, “It stands more in the tone of allyship rather than familiarity and friendship. It goes without saying that the admiral’s ventures in Limsa Lominsa and La Noscea proper have gained a reputation on its own known by many.”

The adventurer’s head tilted, and said, “I assumed wrong then. You just seemed comfortable.”

Her brow perked, “Comfortable?”

They nodded. “Yes, speaking your mind in her company.”

“Have you known me to be different?” Y’shtola replied, the lilt in her voice spoke to amusement rather than inquiry.

“Point taken.” The adventurer said, hardly bothering to hide any growing amusement. Though the distance in their walk was shrinking as the approached the gates, they had not let it dissuade from letting the conversation go without any growing silence. Granted, there was a resistance to bring any topics to the table that would classify as boring or repetitive. “Then what sets someone apart in your confrontations?”

Y’shtola paused at the question, though her stride continued, her face fell into deep thought. “A strange question to be asking. Before answering, what is your interest in its answer?”

“Nothing worth mentioning—probably not anything that would be convincing.” They explained. “Curiosity, if you’ll believe it.”

“Curiosity.” Y’shtola echoed, “a reason that in itself has its own perfunctory and profound use.” A brief pause passed, then she went on to explain. “Merit, that which is determined by not only their knowledge displayed but an ability to understand what knowledge or conversation I wish to impart. What I would discuss with you may not fall in line with what I would wish to share with Thancred or Urianger or my method of explaining it.”

“It makes sense. “That much was obvious, be it that their relations with the archon were vastly different—it is something that really went without saying and more the most obvious answer to an obvious question. “They are closer to you, so your approach to them would be different than a colleague like the admiral.”

Y’shtola nodded. “ _You know_ ,” said in an effort to apprise more clarity for the given answer, especially knowing that their short trek was coming to an end. “You are of course inherently different—not a Scion, Sharlayan, or Archon originally. Even beyond the blessing bestowed, as you are with or without it, you are one I would consider a friend and our private interactions, though occurring sparingly, are of immense value to me.”

“Likewise.” Said mildly in the hopes that any apparent surprise at her words would not show in face or lapse into silence. Though there was never truly a direct way of parsing their friendship, it seemed to feel like the first vocalization of it and its implied closeness. For whatever though may be hidden in the calm rouse, Y’shtola’s smile seemed to bring it to light and warm them to the core of their being.

An afterthought moments after speaking stood as a curse to their lack of a more cohesive reply that conveyed something of the same beyond just one word.

The adventurer’s chuckle was airy, awkward if given more time to air out, but as the Gates stood tall before them, their pace slowed to a stop.

“It seems this is where we part ways.” Y’shtola said, the glance towards the gates more of an act than actually looking. “Again, I wish you good luck in the Grand Melee—though I doubt you’ll need it.”

“But it is always welcome.” The adventurer said, head slightly dipping into another shallow nod.

“As it always is,” Y’shtola said, drawing her hand down their arm only stopping midway to add with a tone of jest. “Try to give the Grand Companies a chance at victory.”

She took a few steps away, hand falling back to her side with a small smile about her features before fully turning towards the Aetheryte.

The touch, though familiar, still sent a buzzing among nerves and heat around the neck and cheeks—glad that Y’shtola had been beyond the ability to recognize it through sight. It took a second to collect themselves, a sparing glance caught that of Knight at the gate who only nodded in response to a meeting gaze, snapping them out of their warming haze.


End file.
